"  '  Was  you  thinkin'  av  lavin',  Mr.  Holman  ? '" 


ON  THE  IRON  AT 
BIG  CLOUD 


BY 

FRANK  L.  PACKARD 


NEW  YORK 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWEU,  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY. 


Published  September,  1911. 


. 

T/J? 


TO 

MY  FATHER 


lluetug 


CONTENTS 


PAOS 

I.  RAFFERTY'S  RULE i 

II.  THE  LITTLE  SUPER 22 

III.  "  IF  A  MAN  DIE  " 43 

IV.  SPITZER    66 

V.  SHANLEY'S  LUCK 92 

VI.  THE  BUILDER  123 

VII.  THE  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  DEVIL'S  SLIDE  ...  153 

VIII.  THE  BLOOD  OF  KINGS 182 

IX.  MARLEY 210 

X.  THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  COUNT 237 

XL  "  WHERE'S  HAGGERTY?  " 256 

XII.  MCQUEEN'S  HOBBY  274 

XIII.  THE  REBATE 292 

XIV.  SPECKLES    308 

XV.  MUNFORD   : 323 


M532952 


ON  THE  IRON  AT  BIG  CLOUD 


RAFFERTY'S  RULE 

THE  General  Manager  of  the  Transcontinental 
System  glared  at  the  young  man  who  stood  facing  him 
across  the  office  desk.  "  Why,  you  wouldn't  last 
three  months !  "  he  snapped. 

"  I'd  like  to  try,  uncle." 

"  Humph !  " 

"  I'm  qualified  for  the  position,"  young  Holman 
went  on.  "  I've  done  my  stint  with  the  construction 
gangs  and  I've  spent  four  years  in  the  Eastern  shops. 
You  promised  me  that  if  I'd  stick  I'd  have  my  chance." 

"  Well,  if  I  did,  I  didn't  promise  to  put  you  in  the 
way  of  making  a  fool  of  yourself  and  a  laughing-stock 
of  me,  did  I?  You  may  be  qualified  technically,  I 
don't  say  you're  not.  In  fact,  I've  been  rather  pleased 
with  you;  that's  one  reason  why  you're  not  going  out 
there  to  tackle  something  you  can't  handle.  If  men 
like  Rawson  and  Williams  can't  hold  down  the  job, 
what  do  you  expect  to  do  ?  " 

"  No  worse  than  they,  at  least,"  Holman  answered, 
quietly.  "  Look  here,  uncle,  that's  just  the  point. 
There  aren't  any  of  the  men  want  the  position,  so  I'm 
not  jumping  anybody  to  take  it.  I'll  not  make  any 
laughing-stock  of  you,  either.  I'm  not  going  out  as 


2         ON   THE    IRON   AT    BIG   CLOUD 

the  Old  Man's  nephew;  just  plain  Dick  Holman.  If 
I  don't  make  good  you  can  wash  your  hands  of  my 
railroad  career." 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  General  Manager,  severely, 
"  don't  make  rash  statements." 

He  pushed  the  papers  on  his  desk  irritably  to  one 
side.  Then  he  frowned.  Two  years  ago,  when  the 
road  had  dug,  blasted,  burrowed,  and  trestled  its  right 
of  way  through  the  mountains,  they  had  built  the 
repair  shops  for  the  maintenance  of  the  rolling  stock, 
and  from  the  moment  the  first  brass  time-check  had 
been  issued  the  locomotive-foremanship  of  the  Hill 
Division  was  no  subject  to  be  introduced  with  temerity 
anywhere  within  the  precincts  of  the  executive  offices. 
One  man  after  another  had  gone  out  there,  and  one 
after  another  they  had  resigned.  "  Hard  lot  to 
handle,"  Carleton,  the  division  superintendent,  had 
replied  to  the  numerous  requests  for  explanation  that 
had  been  fired  at  him.  And  now  Dick  wanted  to  go. 
The  general  manager's  fingers  beat  a  tattoo  on  the 
desk  and  his  frown  deepened  into  a  scowl.  "  You're 
a  young  fool,"  he  grunted  at  last. 

And  Holman  knew  that  he  had  gained  his  point. 
"  That's  very  good  of  you,  uncle,"  he  cried.  "  I  knew 
you'd  see  it  my  way.  When  may  I  start  ?  " 

"  I  guess  you'll  get  there  soon  enough,"  his  uncle 
answered  grimly.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  accom- 
panied Holman  to  the  door.  "Well,  go  if  you  want 
to,  but  remember  this,  young  man,  you're  going  on 
your  own  terms.  When  you  resign  from  that  posi- 
tion, you  resign  from  the  road,  understand !  " 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  3 

i 

"  All  right,  uncle/'  Holman  laughed  in  reply.  "  It's 
a  bargain." 

Three  days  later,  as  Number  One  pulled  into  Big 
Cloud,  Holman  swung  himself  to  the  platform.  Up 
past  the  mail  and  baggage  cars,  the  steam  drumming 
at  her  safety,  a  big  ten-wheeler  was  backing  down  to 
couple  on  for  the  run  through  the  Rockies.  There 
was  the  pride  of  proprietorship  in  his  glance  as  his 
eyes  swept  the  great  mogul  critically,  for  in  his  pocket 
was  his  official  appointment  as  Locomotive  Foreman 
of  the  Hill  Division,  vice  Williams,  resigned. 

It  was  not  until  the  last  of  the  Pullmans  had  rolled 
smoothly  past  him  that  he  turned  to  take  stock  in  his 
surroundings.  The  first  impression  was  not  prepos- 
sessing. Before  him,  just  across  the  yard  filled  with 
strings  of  freight  cars,  were  the  low,  rambling,  smoke- 
begrimed  shops  and  running  shed,  while  beyond  these 
again  the  town  straggled  out  monotonously. 

To  the  westward,  through  the  mountains,  were  the 
curves  and  grades  that  wrenched  and  racked  and  tore 
the  equipment  he  would  hereafter  be  accountable  for. 
To  the  eastward — but  "  eastward  "  was  only  two  hun- 
dred yards  away,  for  there  his  eye  caught  the  "  Yard 
Limit "  post,  that  likewise  marked  the  end  of  the 
division. 

If  after  this  cursory  survey  there  still  lingered  any 
illusions  of  the  picturesque  in  Holman's  mind,  they 
were  rudely  dispelled  by  the  interior  of  the  barn-like 
structure  at  the  side  of  the  platform  that  did  duty  for 
station,  division  headquarters,  general  storeroom,  and 
anything  else  that  might  seek  the  shelter  of  its  pro- 


4         ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

tecting  roof.  The  walls  were  adorned  with  such 
works  of  art  as  are  afforded  by  the  Sunday  supple- 
ments, interspersed  here  and  there  with  an  occasional 
blue-print  and  time  schedule.  The  furnishings  bore 
unmistakable  evidence  of  having  seen  service  with  the 
construction  staff  when  the  road  was  in  the  making. 
At  the  right  of  the  door,  as  Holman  entered,  the 
despatcher  was  poring  over  the  train  sheet. 

"  Sure,"  said  he  in  answer  to  Holman's  inquiry, 
"  that's  the  super  over  there." 

Holman  crossed  the  room  and  proffered  his  creden- 
tials. 

"  Glad  you've  come,"  was  Carleton's  greeting,  as  he 
rose  and  extended  his  hand.  "  We've  been  expecting 
you.  Williams  went  East  this  morning  on  Number 
Two.  Sit  down.  That's  your  desk  there." 

Holman  glanced  at  the  battered  table  toward  which 
the  other  pointed,  then  back  again  to  the  four  days' 
growth  on  the  super's  face. 

Carleton  grinned.  "  Fixings  aren't  up  to  what  you 
boiled-shirt  fellows  down  East  are  used  to.  Out  here 
on  the  firing  line  most  anything  goes.  I've  been 
requisitioning  office  fixtures  for  months.  Ain't  seen 
any  way-bill  of  them  yet,  Davis,  have  you?  "  he  called 
across  to  the  despatcher. 

Davis  got  up  with  a  laugh  and  joined  the  other  two, 
"  No,"  said  he,  shaking  hands  with  Holman,  "  not 
yet." 

"  And  not  likely  to,  either,"  continued  the  super. 
"  It's  rough  and  ready  out  here,  Holman.  The  staff 
quarters  up  there,"  he  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  5 

ceiling,  "  are  all-fired  crude,  and  the  Chinese  cook  is  a 
gilt-edge  thief  and  most  persuasive  liar;  but  we've  got 
the  finest  division  of  the  best  railroad  in  the  world, 
and  we're  pushing  stuff  through  the  mountains  on  a 
schedule  that  makes  Southern  competition  sick.  We're 
young  here  yet.  Some  day,  when  the  roadbed's  shaken 
down  to  stay,  we'll  build  the  extras." 

The  enthusiasm  and  bluff  heartiness  of  the  super 
was  contagious.  Holman  put  out  his  hand  impul- 
sively. "  We've  heard  a  lot  of  you  fellows  down 
East,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  glad 'I've  got  a  chance  to 
chip  in."  His  eyes  swept  around  the  room  and  came 
back  to  meet  the  super's  smilingly.  "  Even  if  accom- 
modations are  below  '  Tourist  Class/  "  he  added. 

So  Holman  came  to  the  division  and  joined  the 
staff.  Spence,  chief  dispatcher,  had  shaken  his  head. 
"  Twenty-eight  and  locomotive  foreman  of  this  divi- 
sion with  the  roughest,  toughest  bunch  on  the  system's 
pay-roll  to  handle !  Hanged  if  he  isn't  a  decent  sort, 
though,  even  if  he  will  shave  and  wear  collars. 
Imagine  Williams  with  creased  trousers!  And  say, 
his  wardrobe — he's  actually  got  a  dress  suit  with  him ! 
Wouldn't  that  ground  the  wires!  Who  is  he,  Car- 
leton  ?  Got  a  pull  with  the  Old  Man  ?  " 

"  Didn't  inquire,"  returned  Carleton  bluntly.  "  Let 
him  try  out." 

If  the  super  waited  before  passing  judgment  on  the 
latest  addition  to  the  staff  of  the  Hill  Division,  the 
shop  hands  did  likewise — but  for  another  reason. 
They  waited  for  Rafferty.  Rafferty  was  boss.  Who 
Rafferty's  boss  was,  was  his  affair,  and  it  did  not  con- 


6         ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

cern  them.     What  Rafferty  said — went.     It  was  two 
weeks  before  he  delivered  his  verdict. 

"  A  damned  pink-faced  dude ! "  he  announced  and 
terminated  his  remark  with  a  stream  of  black-strap 
juice  by  way  of  an  exclamation  mark. 

The  fiat  had  gone  forth ! 

Down  in  the  pits,  stripping  the  engines  of  their 
motion  gear,  the  fitters  passed  resolutions  of  con- 
fidence in  Rafferty's  judgment,  and  among  the  lathes 
and  planers  the  machinists  did  likewise.  The  concur- 
rence of  the  forge  gang  was  expressed  by  a  vicious 
wielding  of  the  big  sledges  that  sent  showers  of  sparks 
flying  from  the  spluttering  metal  whenever  Holman 
was  sighted  coming  down  the  shop  on  a  tour  of  in- 
spection— a  significant  intimation  to  him  to  keep  his 
distance.  And  that  the  sentiment  of  the  shops  might 
not  be  lacking  in  unanimity,  the  boilermakers,  should 
Holman  have  the  temerity  to  pause  for  an  instant 
before  a  shell  on  which  they  were  at  work,  would  send 
up  a  din  from  their  clattering  hammers  intolerable  to 
any  but  the  men  themselves  whose  ears  were  plugged 
with  cotton  waste. 

As  for  Holman,  he  might  have  been  entirely  un- 
conscious of  the  hostility  and  ill-will  of  his  subor- 
dinates for  all  the  evidence  he  gave  of  being  aware  of 
it.  He  was  busy  mastering  the  routine  and  details  of 
his  new  position.  For  a  month  he  said  nothing;  then 
one  morning  over  at  headquarters  he  turned  to  Carle- 
ton,  who  was  reading  the  train  mail  that  had  just 
come  in. 

"  Why  did  Williams  resign  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  7 

"Eh?"  said  Carleton,  startled  out  of  his  calm  by 
reason  of  the  suddenness  of  the  question. 

"Why  did  Williams  resign?"  Holman  repeated. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Tired  of  the  life  out  here,  I 
guess,"  Carleton  evaded. 

"Was  it  Rafferty?" 

Carleton  turned  sharply  to  scrutinize  the  other's 
countenance.  Holman  was  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

"  It  was  Rafferty,"  Carleton  admitted  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

Holman's  gaze  never  shifted  from  the  window. 
"Why  wasn't  Rafferty  fired?"  he  asked  in  the  same 
quiet  tones,  but  this  time  there  was  just  the  faintest 
tinge  of  accusation  in  his  voice. 

Carleton's  face  flushed.  An  instant's  hesitation, 
then  he  answered  bluntly :  "  He  weighed  more,  that's 
why !  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Holman  significantly.  "  Then  why 
didn't  you  recommend  Rafferty  for  the  position  long 
ago  and  save  all  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  if  he  could  do  anything  more  than 
sign  his  name." 

Holman  turned  angrily  to  face  the  super.  "  So," 
he  cried,  "  when  a  fellow  comes  out  here  he  has  to  play 
a  lone  hand,  eh?  A  show-down  with  Rafferty,  shop 
hands,  and  the  whole  division  drawing  cards  against 
him.  You,  Carleton,  I  didn't  put  you  down  as  a  man 
with  a  pet." 

Carleton  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  Holman's 
shoulder.  "  Don't  do  it,  either,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Don't  run  off  your  schedule  that  way,  son.  It  has 


8         ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

always  been  man  to  man,  and  I  wasn't  appealed  to. 
So  far  it  has  been  all  Rafferty.  It's  easier  to  get  a 
new  foreman  than  a  new  shop  crew,  so  I  haven't  in- 
terfered." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Holman  blankly. 

The  super  laughed  shortly.  "  Rafferty  has  the  men 
where  he  wants  them.  If  he  got  on  his  ear  he  could 
tie  us  up  so  quick  we  wouldn't  know  what  happened. 
A  nice  thing  for  me  to  admit,  isn't  it  ?  But  it's  so.  I 
suppose  I  should  have  nipped  the  whole  business  in 
the  bud,  but  I  kept  on  hoping  that  each  new  man 
would  beat  Rafferty  at  his  own  game.  Has  he  got 
you  going,  too  ?  " 

Holman  gathered  up  the  repair  reports  from  his 
desk  and  started  for  the  door.  "  Game's  young  yet," 
he  flung  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  out. 

From  the  office  Holman  walked  up  the  yard  to  the 
spur  tracks  at  the  end  of  the  shops  where  three  or 
four  engines  were  waiting  their  turn  for  an  empty  pit. 
He  glanced  at  their  numbers,  comparing  them  with 
the  papers  he  held  in  his  hand,  then  turned  and  walked 
back,  pausing  on  the  way  to  inspect  an  engine,  bright 
and  clean  as  fresh  paint  and  gold  leaf  would  make 
her,  that  had  been  hauled  out  of  the  shops  that  morn- 
ing. He  passed  in  through  the  upper  doors  to  the 
fitting-shop.  Already  another  engine  had  been 
shunted  in  to  replace  the  one  that  had  gone  out.  Her 
guard-plates,  links,  cross-heads,  main  and  connecting 
rods  were  lying  on  the  floor  beside  her,  and  the  labor 
gang  were  jacking  and  blocking  her  up  preparatory 
to  running  the  wheels  out  from  underneath  her. 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  9 

There  was  a  trace  of  heightened  color  in  Holman's 
face  as  he  turned  to  look  for  Rafferty. 

The  boss  fitter  was  in  his  usual  place.  Down  the 
shop,  hands  dug  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets,  legs 
spread  wide  apart,  he  swung  slowly  round  and  round 
on  the  little  iron  turntable  that  intersected  the  hand- 
car tracks  where  they  branched  out  in  all  directions 
through  the  shops.  As  Holman  approached  he  stopped 
the  motion  indolently  by  allowing  the  toe  of  his  boot 
to  trail  along  the  floor  around  the  table. 

Holman's  manner  was  quiet  and  his  voice  was  soft, 
almost  deferential,  as  he  spoke :  "  I  see  you  have  483 
finished,  Mr.  Rafferty." 

Rafferty  looked  down  from  his  superior  two  inches 
and  said :  "  Yis." 

"  And,"  continued  Holman,  "  you've  run  in  840  in 
her  place." 

"  Yis,"  said  Rafferty  again,  this  time  even  more 
indifferently  than  before. 

"  Well,  now,  really,  Mr.  Rafferty,  I'd  like  to  know 
why  you  did  it  ?  You  know  I  told  you  yesterday  to  be 
particular  to  take  522  next."  Holman's  tones  were 
more  nearly  those  of  apology  than  of  expostulation. 

For  answer  Rafferty  gave  a  little  shove  with  his 
foot  and  the  turntable  began  to  revolve  slowly.  Dur- 
ing the  circuit  Rafferty  coolly  gave  some  directions  to 
the  men  nearest  him,  and  then  as  he  once  more  came 
round  facing  Holman  he  stopped.  "  Fwhat  was  ut 
you  was  sayin',  Mr.  Holman  ?  "  he  drawled. 

"  This  is  the  biggest  division  on  the  system,  isn't 
it?  "  Holman  asked  inconsequently. 


io       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"  Eh?  "  demanded  Rafferty. 

"  Longest  division — most  mileage — covers  quite  a 
stretch  of  country,"  Holman  amplified. 

"Oh!"  returned  the  other  with  a  grin.  "Well, 
you'll  be  thinkin'  so  if  you  ever  sthay  long  enough  to 
git  acquainted  wid  ut." 

"  Perhaps  that's  the  reason  I  am  beginning  to  feel 
cramped — I've  only  been  here  a  month,  you  know," 
Holman  smiled. 

"Fwhat  d'ye  mean?" 

"  Why,  curiously,  it  doesn't  seem  big  enough  or 
wide  enough  or  long  enough  for  even  two  men." 

Holman  purred  his  words  in  soft,  mild  accents,  and 
Rafferty,  understanding,  sneered  in  quick  retort : 
f<  Was  you  thinkin'  av  lavin',  Mr.  Holman  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Holman,  slowly,  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
was.  I  thought  perhaps  the  matter  might  be  adjusted, 
and  I'd  like  to  ask  your  advice.  Now,  if  you  were 
locomotive  foreman  and  you  found  that  the  foreman 
of  this  shop,  in  a  dirty,  low,  underhanded  fashion  was 
discrediting  you  with  the  men,  and  furthermore  flatly 
disobeyed  your  orders,  what  would  you  do,  Mr. 
Rafferty?" 

By  the  time  Holman  had  completed  his  arraign- 
ment, Rafferty  was  mad — fighting  mad.  "  I'll  tell 
you  fwhat  I'd  do,"  he  yelled,  shaking  a  great  horny 
fist  under  Holman's  nose.  "  I'd  plug  him  good  an' 
hard,  that's  fwhat  I'd  do !  See !  " 

"  Rather  drastic,"  Holman  commented  after  a 
pause,  during  which  Rafferty  drew  back  and  with 
hands  on  hips  stood  scowling  belligerently.  "  But 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  II 

desperate  cases  sometimes  require  desperate  remedies, 
and  I  don't  know — but — that — "  his  fist  shot  out  and 
caught  Rafferty  fairly  on  the  point  of  the  jaw — 
"you're  right!" 

Rafferty,  staggering  back  from  the  impact  of  the 
blow,  set  the  table  whirling.  His  feet  went  out  from 
under  him  and  he  fell  sprawling  to  the  floor.  As  he 
picked  himself  up,  Holman  sprang  toward  him  and 
swinging  twice  landed  two  vicious  smashes  on  Raf- 
ferty's  face.  Then,  except  for  a  confused  recollection 
of  a  rush  of  men,  that  was  all  Holman  remem- 
bered until  he  opened  his  eyes  to  find  himself  in  his 
bunk  at  headquarters  with  Carleton  bending  over 
him. 

"You're  a  sight,"  Carleton  commented  grimly. 
"  What  was  the  muss  about?  " 

Holman  explained.  "  I  took  Rafferty's  advice  and 
plugged  him,  you  see,  and  after  that " 

"  After  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  old  Joe,  the  turner, 
running  over  here  to  tell  us,  they'd  have  killed  you. 
Don't  you  know  any  better  than  to  stack  up  against 
Rafferty  like  that,  let  alone  the  whole  gang?  Did  you 
expect  to  do  them  all  up  ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  I  expected  there'd  be  something 
coming  to  me,  but  I  had  to  do  it.  I'll  admit,  Carleton, 
I  was  in  a  blue  funk,  but  I  just  had  to.  Moral  effect, 
you  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  Carleton  savagely,  "  the  moral  effect 
is  great!  It  will  be  as  much  as  your  life  is  worth  to 
put  your  head  inside  those  shops  again.  You  don't 
know  the  men  you're  dealing  with  out  here." 


12       ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

'  You're  wrong,  dead  wrong,  Carleton,  I  do.  You 
said  it  was  man  to  man,  didn't  you  ?  Well,  then,  either 
I'm  running  the  shops  or  Rafferty  is.  Rafferty  has 
the  men  with  him  because  he's  a  bully  and  they're 
afraid  of  him.  It  was  mere  force  of  habit  made  them 
pile  on  to  me.  You  wait  until  they're  cooled  off  a  bit 
and  see." 

But  Carleton  shook  his  head.  "  You're  a  bloomin' 
fool,"  he  summed  up  judicially,  "but  here,  shake! 
You've  got  your  grit  with  you,  if  you  did  leave  your 
sense  behind." 

For  the  rest  of  the  morning  Holman  nursed  his  in- 
juries, but  at  one  o'clock  he  was  at  his  desk  again. 
Five  minutes  afterward  Rafferty  came  in.  He  was 
not  a  pretty  sight  with  his  cut  lip  and  battered  eye  as 
he  limped  past  both  Spence  and  Holman.  With  a 
vindictive  glare  at  the  latter  he  marched  straight 
across  the  room  to  where  Carleton  sat.  He  leaned 
both  hands  on  the  super's  desk. 

"  Ut'll  be  just  a  show-down,  Mr.  Carleton,  that's 
all  there  is  to  ut.  Me  or  him,  which  ?  "  he  announced. 

Carleton  tilted  his  chair  back,  put  his  feet  up  on  the 
desk  and  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest. 
"  State  your  case,  Rafferty,"  he  said  calmly. 

"Case!"  Rafferty  spluttered.  "Case  is  ut?  I'm 
sick  av  bein'  bossed  bye  kids  out  av  school  that  was 
buildin'  blocks  whin  I  was  buildin'  enjines.  I  quit  or 
he  does ! "  Rafferty  jerked  his  thumb  in  Holman's 
direction. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say,  Rafferty?  " 

"  That's  about  the  size  av  ut." 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  13 

"  Very  well,  Rafferty,  you  can  get  your  time,"  said 
Carleton  quietly. 

For  a  moment  Rafferty  stared  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  aright,  then  he  swung  round  on  his  heel  only  to 
turn  again  and  face  the  super  with  a  short  laugh.  "  All 
right,  Mr.  Carleton,  you're  the  docthor.  It's  satisfied 
I  am.  Whin  I  go  out,  every  bloomin'  man  in  the  shops 
'ull  go  out  wid  me !  " 

Carleton's  feet  came  off  the  desk  like  a  shot,  his 
chair  came  down  to  the  floor  with  a  bang,  and  the 
next  instant  he  was  standing  in  front  of  the  boss 
fitter. 

"  See  here,  Rafferty,"  he  blazed,  "  you  know  me — 
the  men  know  me.  While  I've  held  the  bank  there's 
been  fifty-two  cards  in  the  case  and  every  mother's  son 
of  you  has  had  a  square  deal.  You  know  it,  don't 
you?  No  man  on  this  division  ever  came  to  me 
with  just  cause  for  complaint  but  had  a  chance  to  state 
his  grievance  on  a  clear  track  and  no  limit  on  his 
permit  either.  Now,  I'm  entitled  to  the  same  line  of 
treatment  I  hand  out,  and  I  won't  stand  for  threats !  " 

Rafferty  shifted  uneasily  and  to  hide  his  confusion 
reached  for  his  "  chewing."  "  We've  nothin'  agin 
you,  Mn  Carleton,  an'  I'm  givin'  you  fair  warnin'," 
he  mumbled  as  his  teeth  met  in  the  plug. 

"  When  you  make  trouble  on  this  division  you  make 
trouble  for  me,"  said  Carleton  bluntly.  "  As  for  warn- 
ing, I  give  you  warning  now  that  if  you  start  any  dis- 
turbance in  those  shops  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you. 
Now  go ! " 

They  watched   him   through   the  windows   as  he 


14       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

crossed  the  tracks.  Finally,  as  he  disappeared  inside 
the  shops,  Carleton  turned  with  a  grave  face. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  be  a  bad  business,"  he 
said. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  Holman  burst  out,  "  that 
the  men  are  fools  enough  to  quit  just  because  one  man 
with  a  grouch  says  so,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  that  you  didn't  know  the  class  of  men 
out  here — they're  partisan  to  the  core — it's  bred  in 
them.  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Holman — not  for  a 
minute!  As  I  said  this  morning,  I've  seen  it  coming 
for  a  long  while — long  before  Williams  gave  up 
the  ghost.  Now  it's  here,  we'll  face  the  music, 
what?" 

"  It's  mighty  good  of  you  to  say  so,  old  man,"  said 
Holman,  slowly,  "  but  I've  put  you  in  a  bad  hole,  and 
it's  up  to  me  to  get  you  out  of  it.  Inside  of  two  weeks 
with  the  repair  shops  on  strike  our  rolling  stock  won't 
be  able  to  handle  the  traffic."  He  put  on  his  hat  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Carleton  demanded. 

"  Rafferty's  not  going  to  have  this  all  his  own  way. 
The  men  have  no  grievance,  and  I  don't  believe  they'll 
follow  him  out  if  they're  talked  to  right.  I'm  going 
over." 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,  you're  not,"  said  Carleton 
grimly.  "  There  may  be  a  coroner's  inquest  before 
this  affair  is  settled,  perhaps  more  than  one  if  things 
get  nasty,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  propose  starting  in  that 
way  this  afternoon." 

"That's    all    right,"    Holman    replied    doggedly. 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  15 

"Just  the  same,   I'm— Eh?     What's  up,   Carleton? 
What's  wrong?" 

Spence  had  bent  suddenly  over  the  key,  and  Car- 
leton, with  a  startled  exclamation,  was  staring  at  the 
words  the  dispatcher  was  hastily  scribbling  on  the 
pad.  Holman  leaned  over  the  super's  shoulder  and 
even  as  he  saw  Carleton  reach  to  plug  in  the  telephone 
connection  with  the  roundhouse,  he  read  the  message : 
"  Number  Two  wrecked  Eagle  Pass.  Send  wrecker 
and  medical  assistance  at  once."  The  next  instant  he 
was  flying  across  the  yard  to  the  shops. 

As  he  burst  in  through  the  door  he  was  greeted 
with  a  snarl.  The  men  were  massed  in  a  body  around 
one  of  the  locomotives  in  the  fitting-shop,  and  Raf- 
f erty,  from  the  cab,  was  talking  in  fierce,  heated  tones. 
At  sight  of  the  master  mechanic  he  stopped  short  and 
with  an  oath  leaped  from  his  perch  straight  for 
Holman.  The  crowd  divided,  making  a  lane  between 
the  two  men,  then,  with  startling  suddenness,  breaking 
the  ominous  silence  that  had  fallen,  there  came  three 
short  blasts  from  the  shop  whistle — the  wrecker's 
signal.  It  halted  Rafferty  when  but  an  arm's-length 
from  the  locomotive  foreman.  Then  Holman  spoke: 

"  You  hear  that,  men  ?  Number  Two  has  gone  to 
glory  up  in  Eagle  Pass.  You,  Rafferty,  get  the  wreck- 
ing crew  together,  quick!  The  rest  of  you  get  back 
to  work." 

"You're  a  liar!"  Rafferty  yelled.  "A  measly, 
putty-faced,  starch-shirted  liar,  d'ye  hear?  Ut's  a 
plant!  You  can't  work  any  sharp  trick  loike  that  on 
me!" 


16       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

There  was  a  low,  menacing  growl  from  the  men  and 
they  edged  in  close.  But  Holman  gave  them  no  heed ; 
he  took  a  step  nearer  Rafferty,  looking  straight  into 
the  other's  eyes. 

*  Rafferty,"  he  said  quietly,  "  you've  a  wife  and 
kids,  haven't  you?  And  you're  a  railroad  man,  aren't 
you  ?  Well,  there's  wives  and  kids  and  mates  up  there 
in  that  wreck.  The  other  affair  can  wait  until  we  get 
back.  Now,  will  you  go  ?  " 

And  Rafferty  went — at  the  head  of  the  wreckers — 
out  into  the  yard  where  the  switching  crew  were 
working  like  beavers  making  up  the  relief  train.  Two 
passenger  coaches  to  serve  as  ambulances,  behind  them 
a  flat,  then  the  wrecking  crane,  the  tool  car,  and  a 
caboose.  As  Rafferty  was  piling  his  men  into  the 
train,  Holman  raced  across  the  tracks  to  the  station. 
On  the  platform  the  doctors,  hastily  summoned,  were 
crowded  around  Carleton.  Holman  stopped  beside 
them.  "We're  all  ready,  Carleton,"  he  announced; 
then  to  the  others :  "  You  fellows  had  better  get 
aboard;  we'll  be  off  as  soon  as  we  get  the  track." 

"  Spence  will  have  the  line  clear  in  a  minute,"  said 
Carleton,  as  the  doctors  started  for  the  coaches.  "  I'm 
sending  a  dispatcher  up  with  you ;  he  can  tap  in  on  the 
wires.  How  many  men  did  you  scrape  up  ?  " 

'  The  regular  crew." 

"And  Rafferty?" 

"  He's  going  along." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  did  it,  and  there's  no  time 
for  explanations  now ;  but  I  think,  Holman,  you'd  bet- 
ter leave  Rafferty  behind." 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  17 

"  And  have  the  whole  crew  quit,  too  ?  It's  no  use, 
Carleton,  he's  got  to  go.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Carleton  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "  I  don't  like 
the  idea  of  you  two  getting  up  there  together.  There's 
no  need  of  you  going,  and  you'd  better  not  go.  You 
don't  know  the  man;  if  you  think  he'll  forget " 

"You're  wrong,  I  do.  I  told  you  so  before;  any- 
way, it's  too  late  now — we're  off.  Here's  Spence 
with  the  orders." 

Before  Carleton  could  reply,  Holman  had  grabbed 
the  tissue  and  was  running  for  the  train.  As  he 
swung  himself  into  the  cab  of  the  engine  and  handed 
Hurley,  the  driver,  his  orders,  Rafferty  climbed  in 
from  the  other  side. 

At  sight  of  Holman,  Rafferty  hesitated  and  half 
turned  around  in  the  gangway  to  go  back  to  the 
caboose;  but  Holman  reached  out  and  caught  his 
arm. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  Rafferty,"  he  said  quietly. 
And  during  the  nerve-racking  thirty-mile  run  to  Eagle 
Pass  no  other  words  passed  between  them.  Sometimes 
in  the  mad  slur  of  the  locomotive  as  she  hit  the  tan- 
gents their  bodies  touched ;  that  was  all. 

Holman,  by  virtue  of  railroad  etiquette,  had  climbed 
to  the  fireman's  seat  and  once  or  twice  he  had  glanced 
around  at  the  great  bulk  of  the  man  behind  him,  at  the 
grim,  set  features,  at  the  eyes  that  would  not  meet  his, 
and  wondered  at  his  own  temerity  in  inviting  a  physi- 
cal encounter.  And  what  good  had  it  done?  Was 
Carleton  right  after  all?  Perhaps.  And  yet  behind 
the  stubbornness,  the  self-will,  the  purely  physical, 


i8       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

there  must  be  the  other  side  of  the  man.  If  he  could 
only  reach  it — only  touch  it.  He  had  touched  it.  His 
appeal  for  the  injured. 

Hurley  was  eating  up  the  miles  as  only  a  man  at  the 
throttle  of  a  wrecker  with  clear  rights  could  do  it.  A 
long  scream  from  the  whistle  that  echoed  through  the 
mountains  above  the  pounding,  deafening  rush  of  the 
train  brought  Holman  back  to  his  immediate  surround- 
ings. Another  minute  and  they  had  swung  round  the 
curve  and  thundered  over  the  trestle  that  made  the 
approach  to  the  Pass. 

Half  a  mile  ahead  of  them  up  the  track  they  saw  the 
horror.  Hurley  latched  in  his  throttle  and  began  to 
check.  As  the  brake-shoes  bit  into  the  tires,  Holman 
slipped  off  his  seat  and  faced  Rafferty.  There  was  a 
curious  look  in  the  other's  eyes,  and  Holman  under- 
stood. Understood  that  here  Rafferty  was  his  master 
— and  knew  it.  So  this  was  the  meaning  of  it.  This 
was  how  he  had  touched  the  other's  better  nature! 
Rafferty  had  cunningly  seized  the  opportunity  of  plac- 
ing him  at  an  even  greater  disadvantage  than  before. 
For  an  instant  he  hesitated  as  he  bit  his  lip,  then  he 
canceled  the  personal  equation.  "  Go  ahead,  Rafferty," 
he  said  quietly,  answering  the  unspoken  challenge, 
"you're  better  up  in  this  sort  of  thing  than  I  am. 
You're  in  charge." 

And  Rafferty  without  a  word  swung  himself  from 
the  cab. 

To  Holman  the  first  five  minutes  was  unnerving.  It 
was  his  first  bad  wreck.  Down  East  it  had  never  been 
his  province  to  go  out  with  the  crew — nor  was  it  here, 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  19 

he  reflected  grimly,  and  at  that  moment  was  grateful 
for  the  veteran  Rafferty.  It  was  like  some  hideous 
nightmare  to  him.  All  along  the  line  of  burning 
wreckage  lay  the  dead,  their  silence  the  more  awful  by 
contrast  with  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  wounded  still 
imprisoned  in  the  wreck.  And  then  the  feeling  passed 
and  he  worked — worked  like  a  madman. 

Once  a  woman  had  caught  his  arm  and,  sobbing, 
dragged  him  toward  the  stateroom  end  of  one  of  the 
Pullmans.  Through  the  smoke  and  scorching  heat  of 
the  flames  he  had  fought  his  way  in,  then  back  with 
the  child.  The  woman  had  thrown  her  arms  hyster- 
ically around  his  neck. 

It  was  all  a  mad,  furious  turmoil,  and  he  gloried  in 
it.  The  crunch  of  the  ax  through  glass  and  wood- 
work, the  wild  rush  into  the  heart  of  things  to  stagger 
back  blinded  and  choked  with  his  helpless  burden. 
The  fierce  joy  if  life  still  lingered;  the  tender  reverence 
if  life  were  gone. 

Up  the  track  toward  the  engine  there  was  a  crash 
and  a  chorus  of  excited  cries.  He  rushed  in  that  direc- 
tion. A  half-dozen  of  the  wrecking  crew  were  grouped 
around  the  forward  baggage-car.  As  Holman  reached 
them,  disheveled,  clothes  torn  and  scorched,  face 
blackened  with  smoke  and  daubed  with  blood  where 
glass  and  splinters  had  cut  him,  the  men  drew  back 
aghast,  staring  white-faced. 

"  By  God !  "  one  cried.     "  It's  him! " 

"Of  course  it's  me!  Are  you  crazy?  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 

The  man  pointed  to  the  blazing  car.     "  Some  one 


20       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

said  you  was  in  there,  and  he  went  in  after  you  just 
before  she  crumpled  up." 

"Who?"  Holman  shouted. 

"  Rafferty." 

Holman  made  a  dash  for  the  car.  The  men  held  him 
back.  "  Don't  try  it,  sir;  it's  too  late  to  do  any  good." 

He  shook  them  off,  and  with  his  arms  crossed  in 
front  of  his  head  to  protect  his  face  he  half  stumbled, 
half  fell  through  the  opening  that  had  once  been  a 
door.  The  car  was  half  over  on  its  side.  The  trunks, 
dashed  into  a  heap  on  top  of  each  other  when  the  car 
had  left  the  track,  were  all  that  supported  the  burning 
roof  timbers.  Between  the  trunks  and  the  edge  of  the 
car  there  was  a  little  space  with  the  floor  at  an  angle 
of  forty-five  degrees,  and  along  this,  head  down,  Hol- 
man crawled  blindly.  The  floor  was  already  begin- 
ning to  smolder,  the  metal-bound  edges  of  the  trunks 
blistered  his  hands  as  he  touched  them.  His  senses 
reeled,  but  on  and  on  he  crawled,  and  in  his  mind  over 
and  over  again  the  one  thought :  "  Rafferty !  My 
God,  Rafferty!" 

Then  his  hands  touched  something  soft,  and  slowly, 
painfully,  inch  by  inch,  he  struggled  back  dragging 
Rafferty  after  him.  Somehow  he  reached  the  door, 
then  a  confused  jumble  of  noises  and  nothing  more 
until  he  returned  to  consciousness,  and  to  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  back  in  his  room  at  Big  Cloud  with 
the  almond-eyed  factotum  in  attendance. 

"  Belly  much  better?  Likee  eat ?  "  inquired  that  indi- 
vidual solicitously. 

Holman  grinned  in  spite  of  the  pain.    "  No,"  he  an- 


RAFFERTY'S    RULE  21 

swered ;  then  as  he  closed  his  eyes  again  he  muttered : 
"  Tell  Carleton  I  was  right." 

And  he  was,  for  two  days  afterward  Rafferty  pub- 
licly abdicated.  He  gathered  the  men  in  the  fitting- 
shop  and  mounted  to  the  cab  of  an  engine  jacked  half- 
way up  to  the  ceiling  as  before,  only  on  this  occasion  it 
was  at  noon  hour  and  not  in  the  company's  time.  His 
words  were  few  and  to  the  point,  delivered  with  a  force 
and  eloquence  that  was  all  his  own : 

"  I  sed  he  was  a  damned  pink-faced  dude,  so  I  did. 
Well,  I  take  ut  back,  d'ye  moind?  An'  f what's  more, 
I'll  flatten  the  face  av  any  man  fwhat  sez  I  iver  sed 
ut!" 


II 

THE  LITTLE   SUPER 

TOMMY  REGAN  backed  the  big  compound  mogul 
down  past  the  string  of  dark-green  coaches  that  he 
had  pulled  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  took  the  table 
with  a  slight  jolt,  and  came  to  a  stop  in  the  roundhouse. 
As  he  swung  himself  from  the  cab,  Healy,  the  turner, 
came  up  to  him. 

"  He's  a  great  lad,  that  av  yours,"  Healy  began, 
with  a  shake  of  his  head — "  a  great  lad ;  but  mind  ye 
this,  Tommy  Regan,  there'll  be  trouble  for  me  an'  you 
an'  him  an'  the  whole  av  us,  if  you  don't  watch  him." 

"  What's  the  matter  this  time,  John  ?  " 

"Matter,"  said  Healy,  ruefully;  "there's  matter 
enough.  The  little  cuss  come  blame  near  running  429 
into  the  pit  a  while  back,  so  he  did." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  Regan  asked,  with  a  grin. 

"  Devil  a  bit  I  know.  I  chased  him  out,  an'  he 
started  for  over  by  the  shops.  An'  about  an  hour  ago 
your  missus  come  down  an'  said  the  bhoy  was  no- 
wheres  to  be  found,  an'  that  you  was  to  look  for  him." 

Regan  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  Six-thirty.  Well," 
he  said,  "  I'll  go  over  and  see  if  Grumpy  knows  any- 
thing about  him.  Next  time  the  kid  shows  up  around 
here,  John,  you  give  him  the  soft  side  of  a  tommy-bar, 
and  send  him  home." 

22 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  23 

Healy  scratched  his  head.  "  I  will,"  he  said;  "  I'll 
do  ut.  He's  a  foine  lad." 

Regan  crossed  the  yard  to  the  gates  of  the  big  shops. 
They  were  still  unlocked,  and  he  went  through  into 
the  storekeeper's  office.  Grumpy  was  sorting  the  brass 
time-checks.  He  glanced  up  as  Regan  came  in. 

"  I  suppose  you're  lookin'  fer  yer  kid  again,"  he 
said  sourly. 

"  That's  what  I  am,  Steve,"  Regan  returned,  diplo- 
matically dispensing  with  the  other's  nickname. 

"  Well,  he  ain't  here,"  Grumpy  announced,  returning 
to  his  checks.  "  I've  just  been  through  the  shops,  an' 
I'd  seen  him  if  he  was." 

The  engineer's  face  clouded.  "  He  must  be  some- 
where about,  Steve.  John  said  he  saw  him  come  over 
here,  and  the  wife  was  down  to  the  roundhouse  looking 
for  him,  so  he  didn't  go  home.  Let's  go  through  the 
shops  and  see  if  we  can't  find  him." 

"  I  don't  get  no  overtime  fer  chasin'  lost  kids," 
growled  Grumpy. 

Nevertheless,  he  got  up  and  walked  through  the 
door  leading  into  the  forge-shop,  which  Regan  held 
open  for  him.  The  place  was  gloomy  and  deserted. 
Here  and  there  a  forge-fire,  dying,  still  glowed  dully. 
At  the  end  of  the  room  the  men  stopped,  and  Grumpy, 
noting  Regan's  growing  anxiety,  gave  surly  comfort. 

"  Wouldn't  likely  be  here,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"  Fitting-shop  fer  him ;  but  we'll  try  the  machine-shop 
first  on  the  way  through." 

The  two  men  went  forward,  prying  behind  planers, 
drills,  shapers,  and  lathes.  The  machines  took  gro- 


24       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

tesque  shapes  in  the  deepening  twilight,  and  in  the 
silence,  so  incongruous  with  the  usual  noisy  clang  and 
clash  of  his  surroundings,  Regan's  nervousness  in- 
creased. 

He  hurried  forward  to  the  fitting-shop.  Engines 
on  every  hand  were  standing  over  their  respective  pits 
in  all  stages  of  demolition,  some  on  wheels,  some 
blocked  high  toward  the  rafters,  some  stripped  to  the 
bare  boiler-shell.  Regan  climbed  in  and  out  of  the 
cabs,  while  Grumpy  peered  into  the  pits. 

"  Aw !  he  ain't  here,"  said  Grumpy  in  disgust,  wip- 
ing his  hands  on  a  piece  of  waste.  "  I  told  you  he 
wasn't.  He's  home,  mabbe,  by  now." 

Regan  shook  his  head.  "  Bunty !  Ho,  Eunt-ee! "  he 
called.  And  again:  "Run-tee!" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  he  turned  to  retrace  his 
steps  when  Grumpy  caught  him  by  the  shoulder.  The 
big  iron  door  of  the  engine  before  them  swung  slowly 
back  on  its  hinges,  and  from  the  front  end  there 
emerged  a  diminutive  pair  of  shoes,  topped  by  little 
short  socks  that  had  once  been  white,  but  now  hung 
in  grimy  folds  over  the  tops  of  the  boots.  A  pair  of 
sturdy,  but  very  dirty,  bare  legs  came  gradually  into 
view  as  their  owner  propelled  himself  forward  on  his 
stomach.  They  dangled  for  a  moment,  seeking  foot- 
ing on  the  plate  beneath ;  then  a  very  small  boy,  aged 
four,  in  an  erstwhile  immaculate  linen  sailor  suit, 
stood  upright  on  the  foot-plate.  The  yellow  curls  were 
tangled  with  engine  grease  and  cemented  with  cinders 
and  soot.  Here  and  there  in  spots  upon  his  face  the 
skin  still  retained  its  natural  color. 


THE   LITTLE    SUPER  25 

Bunty  paused  for  a  moment  after  his  exertions  to 
regain  his  breath,  then,  still  gripping  a  hammer  in  his 
small  fist,  he  straddled  the  draw-bar,  and  slid  down  the 
pilot  to  the  floor. 

Grumpy  burst  into  a  guffaw. 

Bunty  blinked  at  him  reprovingly,  and  turned  to  his 
father. 

"  I's  been  fixin'  the  'iger-'ed,"  he  announced  gravely. 

Regan  surveyed  his  son  grimly.  "  Fixing  what  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"  The  'iger-'ed,"  Bunty  repeated.  Then  reproach- 
fully: "Don't  oo  know  w'at  a  'iger-'ed  is?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Regan,  "the  nigger-head,  eh?  Well,  I 
guess  there's  another  nigger-head  will  get  some  fixing 
when  your  mother  sees  you,  son." 

He  picked  the  lad  up  in  his  arms,  and  Bunty  nestled 
confidingly,  with  one  arm  around  his  father's  neck. 
His  tired  little  head  sank  down  on  the  paternal  shoul- 
der, and  before  they  had  reached  the  gates  Bunty  was 
sound  asleep. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Bunty  found  it  no  easy 
matter  to  elude  his  mother's  vigilance;  but  that  was 
only  the  beginning  of  his  troubles.  The  shop  gates 
were  always  shut,  and  the  latch  was  beyond  his  reach. 
Once  he  had  found  them  open,  and  had  marched  boldly 
through,  to  find  his  way  barred  by  the  only  man  of 
whom  he  stood  in  awe.  Grumpy  had  curtly  ordered 
him  away,  and  Bunty  had  taken  to  his  heels  and  run 
until  his  small  body  was  breathless. 

The  roundhouse  was  no  better.  Old  John  would 
have  none  of  him,  and  Bunty  marveled  at  the  change* 


26       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

He  was  a  railroad  man,  and  the  shops  were  his 
heritage.  His  soul  protested  vigorously  at  the  outrage 
that  was  being  heaped  upon  him. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  solve  the  problem,  but  at 
last  he  found  the  way.  Each  afternoon  Bunty  would 
trudge  sturdily  along  the  track  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  to  the  upper  end  of  the  shops,  where  the  big,  wide 
engine  doors  were  always  open.  Here  four  spur- 
tracks  ran  into  the  erecting-shop,  and  Bunty  found  no 
difficulty  in  gaining  admittance.  Once  safe  among 
the  fitting-gang,  the  little  Super,  as  the  men  called 
him,  would  strut  around  with  important  air,  inspect- 
ing the  work  with  critical  eyes. 

One  lesson  Bunty  learned.  Remembering  his  last 
interview  with  his  mother,  he  took  good  care  not  to  be 
locked  in  the  shops  again.  So  each  night  when  the 
whistle  blew  he  fell  into  line  with  the  men,  and,  secure 
in  their  protection,  would  file  with  them  past  Grumpy 
as  they  handed  in  their  time-checks.  And  Grumpy, 
unmindful  of  the  spur-tracks,  wondered  how  he  got 
there,  and  scowled  savagely. 

When  Bunty  was  six,  his  father  was  holding  down 
the  swivel-chair  in  the  Master  Mechanic's  office  of  the 
Hill  Division,  and  Bunty's  allegiance  to  the  shops 
wavered.  Not  from  any  sense  of  disloyalty ;  but  with 
his  father's  promotion  a  new  world  opened  to  Bunty, 
and  fascinated  him.  It  was  now  the  yard-shunter  and 
headquarters  that  engaged  his  attention.  The  years, 
too,  brought  other  changes  to  Bunty.  The  curls  had 
disappeared,  and  his  hair  was  cut  now  like  his  father's. 
Long  stockings  had  replaced  the  socks,  and  he  wore 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  27 

real  trousers;  short  ones,  it  is  true,  but  real  trousers 
none  the  less,  with  pockets  in  them. 

When  school  was  over,  he  would  fly  up  and  down 
the  yard  on  the  stubby  little  engine,  and  Healy,  doing 
the  shunting  then  and  forgetting  past  grievances,  would 
let  Bunty  sit  on  the  driver's  seat.  In  time  Bunty 
learned  to  pull  the  throttle,  but  the  reversing-lever  was 
too  much  for  his  small  stature,  and  the  intricacies  of 
the  "  air  "  were  still  a  little  beyond  him.  But  Healy 
swore  he'd  make  a  driver  of  him — and  he  did. 

The  evenings  at  the  office  Bunty  loved  fully  as  well. 
Headquarters  were  not  much  to  boast  about  in  those 
days.  That  was  before  competition  forced  a  double- 
track  system,  and  the  train-dispatcher,  with  his  tissue 
sheets,  still  held  undisputed  sway.  They  called  them 
"  offices  "  at  Big  Cloud  out  of  courtesy — just  the  attic 
floor  over  the  station,  with  one  room  to  it.  The  floor 
space  each  man's  desk  occupied  was  his  office. 

Here  Bunty  would  sit  curled  up  in  his  father's  chair 
and  listen  to  the  men  as  they  talked.  If  it  was  any- 
thing about  a  locomotive,  he  understood;  if  it  was 
traffic  or  bridges  or  road-bed  or  dispatching,  he  would 
pucker  his  brows  perplexedly  and  ask  innumerable 
questions.  But  most  of  all  he  held  Spence,  the  chief 
dispatcher,  in  deep  reverence. 

Once,  to  his  huge  delight,  Spence,  holding  his  hand, 
had  let  him  tap  out  an  order.  It  is  true  that  with  the 
O.  K.  came  back  an  inquiry  as  to  the  brand  the  dis- 
patcher had  been  indulging  in;  but  the  sarcasm  was 
lost  on  Bunty,  for  when  Spence  with  a  chuckle  read 
off  the  reply,  Bunty  gravely  asked  if  there  was  any 


28       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

answer.  Spence  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  "  No, 
son;  I  guess  not,"  he  said.  "We've  got  to  maintain 
our  dignity,  you  know." 

That  winter,  on  top  of  the  regular  traffic,  and  that 
was  not  light,  they  began  to  push  supplies  from  the 
East  over  the  Hill  Division,  preparing  to  double  track 
the  road  from  the  western  side  of  the  foothills  as  soon 
as  spring  opened  up.  And  while  the  thermometer  crept 
steadily  to  zero,  the  Hill  Division  sweltered. 

Everybody  and  everything  got  it,  the  shops  and  the 
road-beds,  the  train  crews  and  the  rolling-stock.  What 
little  sleep  Carleton,  the  super,  got,  he  spent  in  formu- 
lating dream  plans  to  handle  the  business.  Those  that 
seemed  good  to  him  when  he  awoke  were  promptly 
vetoed  by  the  barons  of  the  General  Office  in  the  far- 
off  East. 

Regan  got  no  sleep.  He  raced  from  one  end  of  the 
division  to  the  other,  and  he  did  his  best.  Engine  crews 
had  to  tinker  anything  less  than  a  major  injury  for 
themselves :  there  was  no  room  in  the  shops  for  them. 

But  the  men  on  the  keys  got  it  most  of  all.  As  the 
days  wore  into  months,  Spence's  face  grew  careworn 
and  haggard ;  and  the  irritability  from  overwork  of  the 
men  about  him  added  to  his  discomfort.  Human  na- 
ture needs  a  safety-valve,  and  one  night  near  the  end 
of  January  when  Regan  and  Carleton  and  Spence 
were  gathered  at  the  office,  with  Bunty  in  his  accus- 
tomed place  in  his  father's  chair,  the  master  mechanic 
cut  loose. 

"  It's  up  to  you,  Spence,"  he  cried  savagely,  bringing 
his  fist  down  with  a  crash  on  the  desk.  "  There  ain't 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  29 

a  pair  of  wheels  on  the  division  fit  to  pull  a  hand-car. 
Every  engine's  a  cripple,  and  getting  lamer  every  day. 
The  engine  ain't  built,  nor  never  will  be,  that'll  stand 
the  schedule  you're  putting  them  on  through  the  hills, 
especially  through  the  Gap.  That's  a  three  per  cent, 
with  the  bed  like  an  S.  You  can't  make  time  there; 
you've  got  to  crawl.  You're  pulling  the  stay-bolts  out 
of  my  engines,  that's  what  you're  doing." 

Carleton,  being  in  no  angelic  mood,  and  glad  to 
vent  his  feelings,  growled  assent. 

Spence  raised  his  head  from  the  keys,  a  red  tinge 
of  resentment  on  his  cheeks.  He  picked  up  his  pipe, 
packing  it  slowly  as  he  looked  at  Regan  and  the  super. 
"  I'm  taking  all  they're  sending,"  he  said  quietly.  He 
reached  over  for  the  train-sheet  and  handed  it  to  the 
super.  "  You  and  Regan  here  are  growling  about 
the  schedule.  It's  your  division,  Carleton;  but  I'm 
not  sure  you  know  just  what  we're  handling  every 
twenty- four  hours.  It's  push  them  through  on  top  of 
each  other  somehow,  or  tell  them  down-East  we  can't 
handle  them.  Do  you  want  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Carleton,  "  I  don't ;  and  what's  more,  I 
won't." 

Spence  nodded.  "  I  rather  figured  that  was  your 
idea.  Well,  we've  about  all  we  can  do  without  nagging 
one  another.  I'm  near  in  now,  and  so  are  you  and 
Regan  here,  both  of  you.  I've  got  to  make  time,  Gap 
or  no  Gap.  There's  so  much  moving  there  isn't  siding 
enough  to  cross  them." 

"  You're  right,"  said  Carleton ;  "  we  can't  afford  to 
jump  each  other.  We're  all  doing  our  best,  and  each 


30       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

of  us  knows  it.  How's  Number  One  and  Two  to- 
night?" 

Spence  studied  for  a  moment  before  he  answered: 
"  Number  One  is  forty  minutes  off,  and  Number  Two's 
an  hour  to  the  bad." 

Carleton  groaned.  The  Imperial  Limited  West  and 
East,  officially  known  on  the  train-sheets  as  One  and 
Two,  carried  both  the  transcontinental  mail  and  the 
de-luxe  passengers.  Of  late  the  East  had  been  making 
pertinent  suggestions  to  the  Division  Superintendent 
that  it  would  be  as  well  if  those  trains  ran  off  the  Hill 
Division  with  a  little  more  regard  for  their  established 
schedule.  So  Carleton  groaned.  He  got  up  and  put 
on  his  hat  and  coat  preparatory  to  going  home.  "  Look 
here,"  he  said  from  the  doorway,  "  they'll  stand  for 
'most  anything  if  we  don't  misuse  One  and  Two. 
They're  getting  mighty  savage  about  that,  and  they'll 
drop  hard  before  long.  You  fellows  have  got  to  take 
care  of  those  trains,  if  nothing  else  on  the  division 
moves.  That's  orders.  I'll  shoulder  all  kicks  coming 
on  the  rest  of  the  traffic.  Good-night." 

When  Bunty  left  the  office  that  night  and  walked 
home  with  his  father,  he  had  learned  that  there  was 
another  side  to  railroading  besides  the  building  and  re- 
pairing of  engines,  and  the  delivery  of  magic  tissue 
sheets  to  train  crews  that  told  them  when  and  where  to 
stop,  and  how  to  thread  their  way  through  hills  and 
plains  on  a  single-track  road,  with  heaps  of  other 
trains,  some  going  one  way,  some  another.  He  under- 
stood vaguely  and  in  a  hazy  kind  of  way  that  some- 
where, many,  many  miles  away,  were  men  who  sat  in 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  31 

judgment  on  the  doings  of  his  father  and  Spence  and 
Carleton ;  that  these  men  were  to  be  obeyed,  that  their 
word  was  law,  and  that  their  names  were  President 
and  Directors. 

So  Bunty,  trotting  beside  his  father,  pondered  these 
things.  Being1  too  weighty  for  him,  he  appealed: 
"  Daddy,  what's  president  and  directors  ?  " 

Regan's  temper  being  still  ruffled,  he  answered 
shortly:  "Fools,  mostly." 

Bunty  nodded  gravely,  and  his  education  as  a  rail- 
road man  was  almost  complete.  The  rest  came 
quickly,  and  the  Gap  did  it. 

The  Gap!  There  was  not  a  man  on  the  division, 
from  track-walker  to  superintendent,  who  would  not 
jump  like  a  nervous  colt  if  you  said  "  Gap !  "  to  them 
offhand  and  short-like.  A  peaceful  stretch  of  track  it 
looked,  a  little  crooked,  as  Regan  said,  hugging  the 
side  of  the  mountain  at  the  highest  point  of  the  division. 
The  surroundings  were  undeniably  grand.  A  sheer 
drop  of  eighteen-hundred  feet  to  the  canon  below,  with 
the  surrounding  mountains  rearing  their  snow-capped 
peaks  skyward,  completed  a  picture  of  which  the  road 
had  electrotypes  and  which  it  used  in  their  magazine- 
advertising.  What  the  picture  did  not  show  was  the 
two-mile  drop,  where  the  road-bed  took  a  straight 
three  per  cent  and  sometimes  better,  to  the  lower  levels. 
So  when  Carleton  or  Spence  or  Regan,  reading  their 
magazines,  saw  the  picture,  they  shuddered,  and,  re- 
membering past  history  and  fearful  of  the  future, 
turned  the  page  hurriedly. 

But  to  Bunty  the  Gap  possessed  the  fascination  of 


32       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

the  unknown.  He  was  wakened  early  the  next  morn- 
ing by  his  father's  voice  talking  excitedly  over  the 
special  wire  with  headquarters  about  the  Gap  and  a 
wreck.  He  sat  bolt  upright,  and  listened  with  all  his 
might;  then  he  crawled  noiselessly  out  of  bed,  and 
began  to  dress  hastily.  He  heard  his  father  speaking 
to  his  mother,  and  presently  the  front  door  banged. 
Bunty  was  dressed  by  that  time  and  he  crept  down- 
stairs and  opened  the  door  softly. 

It  was  just  turning  daylight  as  he  started  on  a  run 
for  the  yard.  It  was  not  far  to  the  office, — a  hundred 
yards  or  so, — and  Bunty  reached  there  in  record  time. 
Across  the  tracks  by  the  roundhouse  they  were  coup- 
ling on  to  the  wrecker ;  and  answering  hasty  summons, 
men,  running  from  all  directions,  were  quickly  gath- 
ering. 

Bunty  hesitated  a  minute  on  the  platform,  then  he 
entered  the  station  and  tiptoed  softly  up  the  stairs. 
The  office  door  was  open,  and  from  the  top  stair 
Bunty  could  see  into  the  room.  The  night  lamp  was 
still  burning  on  the  dispatcher's  desk,  and  Spence  was 
sitting  there,  working  with  frantic  haste  to  clear  the 
line.  In  the  center  of  the  room,  the  super,  his  father, 
and  Flannagan,  the  wrecking  boss,  were  standing. 

"  It's  a  freight  smash,"  Carleton  was  saying  to 
Flannagan — "  east  edge  of  the  Gap.  You'll  have 
rights  through,  and  no  limit  on  your  permit.  Tell 
Emmons  if  he  doesn't  make  it  in  better  than  ninety 
minutes  he'll  talk  to  me  afterward.  By  the  time  you 
get  there,  Number  Two  will  be  crawling  up  the  grade. 
She's  pulling  the  Old  Man's  car,  and  that  means  get 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  33 

her  through  somehow  if  you  have  to  drop  the  wreck 
over  the  cliff.  You  can  back  down  to  Riley's  to  let  her 
pass.  We'll  do  the  patching  up  afterward.  Under- 
stand?" 

Flannagan  nodded,  and  glanced  impatiently  at 
Spence. 

The  super  opened  and  shut  his  watch.  "  Ready, 
Spence  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Just  a  minute,"  Spence  answered  quietly. 

Bunty  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  turned  and  ran 
down  the  stairs  and  across  the  tracks  as  fast  as  his  legs 
would  carry  him.  He  scrambled  breathlessly  up  the 
steps  of  the  tool-car  and  edged  his  way  in  among  the 
men  grouped  near  the  door.  He  was  fairly  inside  be- 
fore they  noticed  him. 

"  Hello,"  cried  Allan,  Bunty's  bosom  friend  of  the 
fitting-gang  days,  "  here's  the  little  Super !  What 
you  doin'  here,  kid?  " 

"  I'm  going  up  to  the  wreck,"  Bunty  announced 
sturdily. 

The  men  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  guess  not  much,  you're  not,"  said  Allan, 
"  What  do  you  think  your  father  would  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Bunty,  airily.  "  I  just  corned  from 
the  office,"  he  added  artfully,  "  and  I'll  tell  you  about 
the  wreck  if  you  like." 

The  men  grouped  around  him  in  a  circle. 

"  It's  at  the  Gap,"  Bunty  began,  sparring  for  time  as 
through  the  window  he  saw  Flannagan  coming  from 
the  office  at  a  run.  "  And  it's  a  freight  train,  and—' 
and  it's  all  smashed  up,  and =•" 


34       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

The  train  started  with  a  jerk  that  nearly  took  the 
men  off  their  feet.  At  the  same  time  Flannagan's 
face  appeared  at  the  car  door. 

"  All  here,  boys  ? "  he  called.  Then  he  announced 
cheerfully :  "  The  devil's  to  pay  up  the  line !  " 

Meanwhile,  Bunty,  taking  advantage  of  the  inter- 
ruption, had  squirmed  his  way  through  the  men  to  the 
far  end  of  the  car,  and  the  train  had  bumped  over  the 
switches  on  to  the  main  line  before  they  remembered 
him.  Then  it  was  too  late.  They  hauled  him  out  from 
behind  a  rampart  of  tools,  where  he  had  intrenched 
himself,  and  Flannagan  shook  his  fist,  half-angrily, 
half-playfully,  in  Bunty's  face. 

"  You  little  devil,  what  are  you  doing  here,  eh  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

And  Bunty  answered  as  before :  "  I'm  going  up  to 
the  wreck." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Flannagan,  with  a  grin.  "  Well,  I 
guess  you  are,  and  I  guess  you'll  be  sorry,  too, 
when  you  get  back  and  your  dad  gets  hold  of 
you."  ' 

But  Bunty  was  safe  now,  and  he  only  laughed. 

Breakfastless,  he  shared  the  men's  grub  and  lis- 
tened wide-eyed  as  they  talked  of  wrecks  in  times  gone 
by;  but  most  of  all  he  listened  to  the  story  of  how  his 
father,  when  he  was  pulling  Number  One,  had  saved 
the  Limited  by  sticking  to  his  post  almost  in  the  face  of 
certain  death.  Bunty's  father  was  his  hero,  and  his 
small  soul  glowed  with  happiness  at  the  tale.  He 
begged  so  hard  for  the  story  over  again  that  Allan  told 
it,  and  when  he  had  finished,  he  slapped  Bunty  on  the 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  35 

back.  "  And  I  guess  you're  a  chip  of  the  old  block," 
he  said. 

And  Bunty  was  very  proud,  squaring  his  shoulders, 
and  planting  his  feet  firmly  to  swing  with  the  motion 
of  the  car. 

The  speed  of  the  train  slackened  as  they  struck  the 
grade  leading  up  the  eastern  side  of  the  Gap.  Flanna- 
gan  set  the  men  busily  at  work  overhauling  the  kit. 
He  paused  an  instant  before  Bunty.  "  Look  here, 
kid/'  he  said,  shaking  a  warning  finger,  "  you  keep  out 
of  the  way,  and  don't  get  into  trouble." 

It  would  have  taken  more  than  words  from  Flanna- 
gan  to  have  curbed  Bunty's  eagerness;  so  when  the 
train  came  to  a  stop  and  the  men  tumbled  out  of  the 
car  with  a  rush,  he  followed.  What  he  saw  caused 
him  to  purse  his  lips  and  cry  excitedly,  "  Gee !  " 

Right  in  front  of  him  a  big  mogul  had  turned  tur- 
tle. Ditched  by  a  spread  rail,  she  had  pulled  three  box- 
cars with  her,  and  piled  them  up,  mostly  in  splinters, 
on  the  tender.  They  had  taken  fire,  and  were  burning 
furiously.  Behind  these  were  eight  or  ten  cars  still 
on  the  road-bed,  but  badly  demolished  from  bumping 
over  the  ties  when  they  had  left  the  rails.  Still  farther 
down  the  track  in  the  rear  were  the  rest  of  the  string, 
apparently  uninjured.  The  snow  was  knee-deep  at  the 
side  of  the  track,  but  Bunty  plowed  manfully  through 
it,  climbing  up  the  embankment  to  a  place  of  vantage. 

His  eyes  blazed  with  excitement  as  he  watched  the 
scene  before  him  and  listened  to  the  hoarse  shouts 
of  the  men,  the  crash  of  pick  and  ax,  and,  above  it  all, 
the  sharp  crackle  of  the  fire  as  the  flames,  growing  in 


36       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

volume,  bit  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  wreck.  Fiercely 
as  the  men  fought,  the  fire,  with  its  long  start,  kept 
them  from  making  any  headway  against  it.  Already 
it  had  reached  some  of  the  cars  standing  on  the 
track. 

From  where  Bunty  stood  he  could  see  the  track  dip- 
ping away  in  a  long  grade  to  the  valley  below.  They 
called  that  grade  the  Devil's  Slide,  and  the  wreck  was 
on  the  edge  of  it,  with  the  caboose  and  some  half-dozen 
cars  still  resting  on  the  incline.  As  he  looked,  far 
below  him  he  saw  a  trail  of  smoke.  It  was  Number 
Two  climbing  the  grade.  By  this  time  the  excitement 
of  his  surroundings  had  worn  off  a  little,  and  the 
arrival  of  the  Limited  offered  a  new  attraction. 

He  clambered  down  from  his  perch  and  began  to 
pick  his  way  past  the  wreck.  Flannagan,  begrimed 
and  dirty,  was  talking  to  Emmons.  "  I  don't  like  to 
do  it,"  Bunty  heard  Flannagan  say,  "  but  we'll  have  to 
blow  up  that  box-car  if  we  can't  stop  the  fire  any  other 
way,  or  we'll  have  a  blaze  down  the  whole  line.  The 
train  crew  says  there's  turpentine — two  cars  of  it — 
next  the  flat  there,  and  if  that  catches — Hi,  there, 
kid,"  he  broke  off  to  yell,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Bunty, 
"  you  get  back  to  the  tool-car,  and  stay  there !  " 

And  Bunty  ran — in  the  other  direction.  He  knew 
Number  Two  would  stop  a  little  the  other  side  of  the 
wreck,  and  that  there  would  be  a  great  big  ten-wheeler 
pulling  her,  all  as  bright  as  a  new  dollar  and  glistening 
in  paint  and  gold-leaf.  When  he  pulled  up  breathless 
and  happy  by  the  side  of  Number  Two,  Masters,  the 
engineer,  was  giving  Engine  901  an  oil  round,  touch- 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  37 

ing  the  journals  critically  with  the  back  of  his  hand  as 
he  moved  along. 

At  sight  of  Bunty,  the  engineer  laid  his  oil-can  on 
the  slide-bars  and  grinned  as  he  extended  his  hand. 
"  How  are  you,  Bunty  ?  "  he  asked. 

And  Bunty,  accepting  the  proffered  hand,  replied 
gravely :  "  I'm  pretty  well,  Mr.  Masters,  thank  you." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,  Bunty.    How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  I  corned  up  with  the  wrecker-train.  It's  a'  awful 
smash." 

"  Is  it,  now !  Think  they'll  have  the  line  cleared 
soon?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  Bunty  replied,  eyeing  the  cab  of  the  big 
engine  wistfully.  "  Not  for  ever  and  ever  so  long." 

Masters'  eyes  followed  Bunty's  glance.  "  Want  to 
get  up  in  the  cab,  Bunty  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please !  "  Bunty  cried  breathlessly. 

"  All  right,"  said  Masters,  boosting  the  lad  through 
the  gangway.  Then  warningly :  "  Don't  touch  any- 
thing." 

And  Bunty  promised. 

It  was  only  four  hundred  yards  up  to  the  wreck ;  but 
that  was  enough.  Masters  and  his  firemen  left  their 
train  and  went  to  get  a  view  at  close  quarters.  When 
it  was  all  over,  it  was  up  to  the  wrecking  boss  and  the 
engine  crew  of  Number  Two.  Flannagan  swore  he 
blocked  the  trucks  of  the  cars  on  the  incline;  but 
Flannagan  lied,  and  he  got  clear.  Masters  and  his 
mate  had  no  chance  to  lie,  for  they  broke  rules,  and 
they  got  their  time. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Bunty  sat  on  the  driver's  seat  of 


38       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

the  Imperial  Limited  and  watched  the  engineer  and 
fireman  start  up  the  track.  He  lost  sight  of  the  men 
long  before  they  reached  the  wreck.  They  were  still  in 
view,  but  he  was  very  busy :  he  was  playing  "  pretend." 

Bunty's  imagination  was  vivid  enough  to  make  the 
game  a  fascinating  one  whenever  he  indulged  in  it, 
and  that  was  often.  But  now  it  was  almost  reality,  and 
his  fancy  was  little  taxed  to  supply  what  was  lacking. 
He  was  engineer  of  the  Limited,  and  they  had  just 
stopped  at  a  station.  He  leaned  out  of  the  cab  window 
to  get  the  "  go-ahead  "  signal.  Then  his  hand  went 
through  the  motion  of  throwing  over  the  reversing- 
lever  and  opening  the  throttle.  And  now  he  was  off; 
faster  and  faster.  He  rocked  his  body  to  and  fro  to 
supply  the  motion  of  the  cab.  He  sat  very  grim  and 
determined,  peering  straight  ahead.  He  was  booming 
along  now  at  full  speed.  They  were  coming  to  a 
crossing.  !e  Too-oo-o,  toot,  toot!"  cried  Bunty  at  the 
top  of  his  shrill  treble,  for  the  rules  said  you  must  whis- 
tle at  every  crossing,  and  Bunty  knew  the  rules.  Now 
they  were  coming  to  the  next  station,  and  he  began  to 
slow  up.  "Ding-dong,  ding — " 

Bang! 

Bunty  nearly  fell  from  his  seat  with  fright.  Ahead 
of  him,  up  the  track,  there  was  a  column  of  smoke  as  a 
mass  of  wreckage  rose  in  the  air,  and  then  a  crash. 
Flannagan  had  blown  up  a  car.  Bunty  stared,  fasci- 
nated, not  at  the  explosion,  but  at  the  rear  end  of  the 
wreck  on  the  grade.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  in  bewilder- 
ment, then  he  scrambled  over  the  side  of  the  seat.  He 
paused  half-way  off,  looking  again  through  the  front 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER 


39 


window  to  make  sure.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it :  the 
cars  were  beginning  to  roll  down  the  track  toward 
him.  He  waited  for  no  more,  but  rushed  to  the  gang- 
way to  jump  off.  Then  he  stopped  as  the  story  Allan 
had  told  about  his  father  came  back  to  him.  Bunty's 
heart  thumped  wildly  as  he  turned  white-faced  and 
determined.  No  truly  engineer  would  leave  his  train; 
his  father  had  not,  and  Bunty  did  not. 

The  reversing-lever  was  in  the  back  notch  where 
Masters  had  left  it  when  he  stopped  the  train.  It  was 
Bunty's  task  to  reach  and  open  the  throttle.  He 
climbed  up  on  the  seat  and  stood  on  tiptoe.  Leaning 
over,  he  grasped  the  lever  with  both  hands  and  pulled  it 
open.  What  little  science  of  engine-driving  Bunty 
possessed,  was  lost  in  the  terror  that  gripped  him.  The 
runaway  cars  were  only  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
away  now,  and,  gaming  speed  with  every  rail  they 
traveled,  spelt  death  and  destruction  to  the  Imperial 
Limited,  if  they  ever  reached  her.  The  men  at  the  top 
of  the  grade  were  yelling  their  lungs  out  and  waving 
their  arms  in  frantic  warning. 

The  train  started  with  a  jolt  that  threw  Bunty 
back  on  the  seat.  For  an  instant  the  big  drivers  raced 
like  pin-wheels,  then  they  bit  into  the  rails,  and  aided 
by  the  grade,  Number  Two  began  to  back  slowly  down 
the  hill. 

Bunty  picked  himself  up,  his  little  frame  shaking 
with  dry  sobs.  The  freight-cars  had  gained  on  him  in 
the  last  minute,  and  had  nearly  reached  him.  Again 
he  leaned  over  for  the  throttle,  and  hanging  grimly  to 
it,  pulled  it  open  another  notch,  and  then  another,  and 


40       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

then  wide  open.  901  took  it  like  a  frightened  thor- 
oughbred. Rearing  herself  from  the  track  under  her 
two  hundred  and  ten  pounds  of  steam,  she  jumped 
into  the  cars  behind  her  for  a  starter  with  a  shock  that 
played  havoc  with  the  passengers'  nerves.  Then  she 
settled  down  to  travel.  The  Devil's  Slide  is  two 
miles  long,  and  some  pretty  fair  running  has  been 
made  on  it  in  times  of  stress;  but  Bunty  holds  the 
record, — it's  good  yet, — and  Bunty  was  only  an 
amateur ! 

It  was  neck  and  neck  for  a  while,  and  there  was  al- 
most a  pile-up  on  the  nose  of  901 's  pilot  before  she 
began  to  hold  her  own.  Gradually  she  began  to  pull 
away,  and  by  the  time  they  were  half-way  down  the 
hill  the  distance  between  her  and  the  truant  freight- 
cars  was  widening.  The  speed  was  terrific. 

Pale  and  terror-stricken,  Bunty  now  crouched  on 
the  driver's  seat.  Time  and  again  the  engineer's 
whistle  in  the  cab  over  his  head  signaled,  now  en- 
treatingly,  now  with  frantic  insistence.  But  Bunty 
gave  it  no  heed ;  his  only  thought  was  for  those  cars 
in  front  of  him  that  were  always  there.  He  cried 
to  himself  with  little  moans. 

There  was  a  sickening  slur  as  they  flew  round  a 
curve.  901  heeled  to  the  tangent,  one  set  of  drivers 
fairly  lifted  from  the  track.  When  she  found  her 
wheel  base  again,  Bunty,  shaken  from  his  hold,  was 
clinging  to  the  reversing-lever.  He  shut  his  eyes  as  he 
pulled  himself  back  to  his  seat.  When  he  looked  again, 
he  saw  the  freight-cars  hit  the  curve  above  him,  then 
slew  as  they  jumped  the  track  and,  with  a  crash  that 


THE    LITTLE    SUPER  41 

reached  him  above  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  train, 
the  booming  whir  of  the  great  drivers  beneath  him,  go 
pitching  headlong  down  the  embankment. 

Bunty  rose  to  his  knees,  and  for  the  first  time  looked 
out  of  the  side  window,  to  find  a  new  terror  there  as 
the  rocks  and  trees  and  poles  flashed  dizzily  by  him. 
He  turned  and  looked  behind.  A  man  was  clinging  to 
the  hand-rail  of  the  mail-car,  and  another,  lying  flat, 
was  crawling  over  the  coal  heaped  high  on  the  tender. 
Bunty  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes;  he  was  no 
"  fraidy  "  kid.  He  stood  up,  and  holding  on  to  the 
frame  of  the  window,  staggered  toward  the  throttle. 
As  he  reached  for  it,  901  lurched  madly,  and  Bunty 
lost  his  balance  and  fell  headlong  upon  the  iron  floor 
plate  of  the  cab.  Then  it  was  all  dark. 

NUMBER  Two  pulled  into  Big  Cloud  that  night  ten 
hours  late,  and  it  brought  Bunty.  His  father  and 
Carleton  and  Spence  and  the  shop-hands  were  on  the 
platform.  From  the  private  car,  which  carried  the 
tail-lights,  an  elderly  gentleman  got  off  with  Bunty  in 
his  arms.  The  men  cheered,  and  while  the  master 
mechanic  rushed  forward  to  take  his  son,  the  super  and 
Spence  drew  back  respectfully. 

"  Mr.  Regan,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  "  you  ought  to  be  pretty  proud  of  this  little 
lad." 

Regan  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  choked  some- 
how. 

The  old  gentleman  swung  himself  back  upon  the  car. 
"  Good-by,  Bunty!  "  he  called. 


! 


42       ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

And  Bunty,  from  the  depths  of  the  blanket  they  had 
wrapped  around  him,  called  back,  "  Good-by,  sir !  " 

When  Bunty  was  propped  up  in  bed,  his  father  told 
him  how  the  express  messenger  had  stopped  the  train 
and  carried  him  back  into  the  Pullmans. 

Bunty  listened  gravely.  "  Yes/'  he  said,  nodding  his 
head ;  "  they  was  awful  good  to  me,  and  the  man  that 
tooked  me  off  the  train  told  me  stories,  and  then  I  told 
him  some,  too." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him?  "  Regan  asked. 

"  Oh,  'bout  trains  and  shops  and  presidents  and 
directors  and — and  lots  of  things." 

"  Presidents  and  directors ! "  said  Regan,  in  sur- 
prise. "  What  did  you  tell  him  about  them?  " 

"  I  told  him  what  you  said — that  they  was  fools, 
and  you  knew,  'cause  you'd  seen  them." 

Regan  whistled  softly. 

"  And,"  continued  Bunty,  "  he  laughed,  and  when 
I  asked  him  what  he  was  laughing  at,  he  gived  me  a 
piece  of  paper  and  told  me  to  give  it  to  you,  and  you'd 
tell  me." 

Regan  groaned.  "  Guess  it's  my  time  all  right,"  he 
muttered.  "  Where's  the  paper,  Bunty?  " 

"  He  putted  it  in  my  pocket." 

Regan  drew  the  chair  with  Bunty's  clothing  on  it 
toward  him,  and  began  a  hurried  search.  He  fished 
out  a  narrow  slip  of  paper  and  unfolded  it  on  his  knee. 
It  was  a  check  for  one  thousand  dollars  payable  to 
Master  Bunty  Regan,  and  signed  by  the  President  of 
the  road. 


Ill 

"  IF  A  MAN  DIE  " 

EAST  and  West  now,  the  Transcontinental  is  double- 
tracked,  all  except  the  Hill  Division — and  that,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  probably  never  will  be.  If  you  know 
the  mountains,  you  know  the  Hill  Division.  From  the 
divisional  point,  Big  Cloud,  that  snuggles  at  the  east- 
ern foothills,  the  right  of  way,  like  the  trail  of  a  great 
sinewy  serpent,  twists  and  curves  through  the  moun- 
tains, through  the  Rockies,  through  the  Sierras,  and 
finally  emerges  to  link  its  steel  with  a  sister  division, 
that  stretches  onward  to  the  great  blue  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean. 

It  is  a  stupendous  piece  of  track.  It  has  cost  fabulous 
sums,  and  the  lives  of  many  men;  it  has  made  the 
fame  of  some,  and  been  the  graveyard  of  more.  The 
history  of  the  world,  in  big  things,  in  little  things,  in 
battles,  in  strife,  in  sudden  death,  in  peace,  in  progress, 
and  in  achievement,  has  its  counterpart,  in  miniature, 
in  the  history  of  the  Hill  Division.  There  is  a  page 
in  that  history  that  belongs  to  "  Angel  "  Breen.  This 
is  Breen's  story. 

It  has  been  written  much,  and  said  oftener,  that  men 
in  every  walk  of  life,  save  one,  may  make  mistakes  and 
live  them  down,  but  that  the  dispatcher  who  falls  once 

43 


44       ON   THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

is  damned  forever.  And  it  is  true.  I  am  a  dispatcher. 
I  know. 

Where  he  got  the  nickname  "  Angel  "  from,  is  more 
than  I  can  tell  you,  and  I've  wondered  at  it  often 
enough  myself.  Contrast,  I  guess  it  was.  Contrast 
with  the  boisterous,  rough  and  ready  men  around  him, 
for  this  happened  back  in  the  early  days  when  men 
were  what  a  life  of  hardship  and  no  comfort  made 
them.  No,  Breen  wasn't  soft — far  from  it.  He  was 
just  quiet  and  mild-mannered.  It  must  have  been  that 
— contrast.  Anyway,  he  was  "  Angel "  when  I  first 
knew  him,  and  you  can  draw  your  own  conclusions  as 
to  what  he  is  now — I'm  not  saying  anything  at  all 
about  that. 

Where  did  he  come  from?  What  was  he  before  he 
came  here?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  believe  anybody 
knew,  or  ever  gave  the  matter  a  thought.  That  sort 
of  question  was  never  asked — it  was  too  delicate  and 
pointed  in  the  majority  of  cases.  A  man  was  what  he 
was  out  here,  not  what  he  had  been ;  he  made  good,  or 
he  didn't.  Not  that  I  mean  to  imply  that  there  was 
anything  crooked  or  anything  wrong  with  Breen's 
past,  I'm  sure  there  wasn't  for  that  matter,  but  I'm 
just  trying  to  make  you  understand  that  when  I  say 
Breen  had  the  night  trick  in  the  dispatcher's  office  here 
in  Big  Cloud,  I'm  beginning  at  the  beginning. 

Breen  wasn't  popular.  He  wasn't  a  good  enough 
mixer  for  that.  Personally,  it  isn't  anything  I'd 
hold  up  against  him,  or  any  other  man.  Popularity  is 
too  often  cheap,  and  being  a  "  good  fellow  "  isn't  al- 
ways a  license  for  a  man  to  puff  out  his  chest — though 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE" 

'" 

most  of  them  do  it,  and  that's  the  high  sign  that  what 
I  say  is  right.  No,  I'm  not  moralizing,  I'm  telling  a 
story,  you'll  see  what  I  mean  before  I  get  through.  I 
say  Breen  wasn't  popular.  He  got  the  reputation  of 
thinking  himself  a  little  above  the  rank  and  file  of 
those  around  him,  stuck-up,  to  put  it  in  cold  English, 
and  that's  where  they  did  him  an  injustice.  It  was 
the  man's  nature,  unobtrusive,  retiring — different 
from  theirs,  if  you  get  my  point,  and  they  couldn't  un- 
derstand just  because  it  was  different.  The  limitations 
weren't  all  up  to  Breen. 

If  they  had  known,  or  taken  the  trouble  to  know, 
as  much  about  him  as  they  could  have  known  before 
passing  judgment  on  him,  perhaps  things  might  have 
been  a  little  different ;  perhaps  not,  I  won't  say,  for  it's 
pretty  generally  accepted  in  railroad  law  that  a  dis- 
patcher's slip  is  a  capital  offense,  and  there's  no  court 
of  appeal,  no  stay  of  execution,  no  anything,  and  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  he's  dead  from  the  moment  that 
slip  is  made.  There  have  been  lots  of  cases  like  that, 
lots  of  them,  and  there's  no  class  of  men  I  pity  more — 
a  slip,  and  damned  for  the  rest  of  their  lives !  I  don't 
say  that  because  I'm  a  dispatcher  myself.  We're  only 
human,  aren't  we?  Mistakes  like  that,  God  knows, 
aren't  made  intentionally.  Sometimes  a  man  is  over- 
worked, sometimes  queer  brain  kinks  happen  to  him 
just  as  they  do  to  every  other  man.  We're  ranked 
as  human  in  everything  but  our  work.  I'm  not  saying 
it's  not  right.  In  the  last  analysis  I  suppose  it  has  to 
be  that  way.  It's  part  of  the  game,  and  we  know  the 
rules  when  we  "  sit  in."  We've  no  reason  to  complain, 


46       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

only  I  get  a  shiver  every  time  I  read  a  newspaper  head- 
line that  I  know,  besides  being  a  death-warrant,  is 
tearing  the  heart  out  of  some  poor  devil.  You've 
seen  the  kind  I  mean,  read  scores  of  them — "  Dis- 
patcher's Blunder  Costs  Many  Lives  " — or  something 
to  the  same  effect.  Maybe  you'll  think  it  queer,  but  for 
days  afterward  I  can't  handle  an  order  book  or  a  train 
sheet  when  I'm  on  duty  without  my  heart  being  in  my 
mouth  half  the  time. 

What's  this  got  to  do  with  Breen?  Well,  in  one 
way,  it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  him;  and,  then 
again,  in  another  way,  it  has.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  a  blunder  means  something  to  a  dispatcher  be- 
sides the  loss  of  his  job.  Do  you  think  they're  a  cold- 
blooded, calloused  lot?  I  want  you  to  know  that  they 
care.  Oh,  yes,  they're  human.  They've  got  a  heart 
and  they've  got  a  soul;  the  one  to  break,  the  other  to 
sear.  My  God!  think  of  it — a  slip.  That's  the 
ghastly  horror  of  it  all — a  slip!  Don't  you  think  they 
can  feel?  Don't  you  think  their  own  agony  of  mind  is 
punishment  enough  without  the  added  reproach,  and 
worse,  of  their  fellows?  But  let  it  go,  it's  the  Law 
of  the  Game. 

I  said  they  didn't  know  much  about  Breen  out  here 
then  except  that  he  was  a  pretty  good  dispatcher,  but 
as  far  as  that  goes  it  didn't  help  him  any,  rather  the 
reverse,  when  the  smash  came.  The  better  the  man 
the  harder  the  fall,  what?  It's  generally  that  way, 
isn't  it?  Perhaps  you're  wondering  what  /  know 
about  him.  I'll  tell  you.  If  any  one  knew  Breen,  I 
knew  him.  I  was  only  a  kid  then,  I'm  a  man  now.  I 


"IF    A    MAN    DIE"  47 

hadn't  even  a  coat — Breen  gave  me  one.  I'm  a  dis- 
patcher— Breen  taught  me,  and  no  better  man  on  the 
"  key "  than  Breen  ever  lived,  a  better  man  than  I 
could  ever  hope  to  be,  yet  he  slipped.  Do  you  wonder 
I  shiver  when  I  read  those  things  ?  I'm  not  a  religious 
man,  but  I've  asked  God  on  my  bended  knees,  over 
and  over  again,  to  keep  me  from  the  horror,  the  suffer- 
ing, the  blasted  life  that  came  to  Breen  and  many 
another  man — through  a  slip.  Yes,  if  any  one  knew 
Breen,  I  did.  All  I  know,  all  I've  got,  everything  in 
this  whole  wide  world,  I  owe  to  Breen — "  Angel " 
Breen. 

You  probably  read  of  the  Elktail  wreck  at  the  time 
it  happened,  but  you've  forgotten  about  it  by  now. 
Those  things  don't  live  long  in  the  mind  unless  they 
come  pretty  close  home  to  you ;  there's  too  many  other 
things  happening  every  hour  in  this  big  pulsing  world 
to  make  it  anything  more  than  the  sensation  of  the 
moment.  But  out  here  the  details  have  cause  enough 
to  be  fixed  in  the  minds  of  most  of  us,  not  only  of  the 
wreck  itself,  but  of  what  happened  afterward  as  well — 
and  I  don't  know  which  of  the  two  was  the  worse. 
You  can  judge  for  yourself. 

I'm  not  going  into  technicalities.  You'll  understand 
better  if  I  don't.  You'll  remember  I  said  that  the  Hill 
Division  is  only  single-tracked.  That  means,  I  don't 
need  to  tell  you,  that  it's  up  to  the  dispatcher  every  sec- 
ond, and  all  that  stands  between  the  trains  and 
eternity  is  the  bit  of  tissue  tucked  in  the  engineer's 
blouse  and  its  duplicate  crammed  in  the  conductor's 
side  pocket.  Orders,  meeting  points,  single  track, 


48       ON   THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

you  understand?  The  dispatcher  holds  them  all, 
every  last  one  of  them,  for  life  or  death,  men,  women 
and  children,  train  crews  and  company  property,  all — 
and  Breen  slipped ! 

No  one  knows  to  this  day  how  it  happened.  I  dare- 
say some  eminent  authority  on  psychology  might  ex- 
plain it,  but  the  explanation  would  be  too  high-browed 
and  too  far  over  my  head  to  understand  it  even  if  he 
did.  I  only  know  the  facts  and  the  result.  Breen  sent 
out  a  lap  order  on  Number  One,  the  Imperial  Limited, 
westbound,  and  Number  Eighty-Two,  a  fast  freight, 
perishable,  streaking  east.  Both  were  off  schedule,  and 
he  was  nursing  them  along  for  every  second  he  could 
squeeze.  Back  through  the  mountains,  both  ways,  all 
through  the  night,  he'd  given  them  the  best  of  every- 
thing— the  Imperial  clear  rights,  and  Eighty-Two 
pretty  nearly,  if  not  quite,  as  good.  Then  he  fixed  the 
meeting  point  for  the  two  trains. 

I  read  a  story  once  where  the  dispatcher  sent  out  a 
lap  order  on  two  trains  and  his  mistake  was  staring  at 
him  all  the  time  from  his  order  book.  I  guess  that 
was  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  he  never  noticed  it.  That 
was  queer  enough,  but  what  Breen  did  was  queerer 
still.  His  order  book  showed  straight  as  a  string. 
The  freight  was  to  hold  at  Muddy  Lake,  ten  miles  west 
of  Elktail,  for  Number  One.  Number  One,  of  course, 
as  I  told  you,  running  free.  Somehow,  I  don't  know 
how,  it's  one  of  those  things  you  can't  explain,  a  sub- 
conscious break  between  the  mind  and  the  mechanical, 
physical  action,  you've  noticed  it  in  little  things  you've 
done  yourself,  Breen  wired  the  word  "  Elktail  "  in- 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE"  49 

stead  of  "  Muddy  Lake  " — and  never  knew  it — never 
had  a  hint  that  anything  was  wrong — never  caught  it 
on  the  repeat,  and  gave  back  his  O.  K.  The  order,  the 
written  order  in  the  book,  was  exactly  as  it  should  be. 
It  read  Muddy  Lake — that  was  right,  Muddy  Lake. 
You  see  what  happened?  There  wasn't  time  for  the 
freight  to  make  Elktail,  but  she  got  within  three  miles 
of  it — and  that's  as  far  as  she  ever  got!  In  a  nasty 
piece  of  track,  full  of  trestles  and  gorges,  where  the 
right  of  way  bends  worse  than  the  letter  S,  they  met, 
the  two  of  them,  head  on — Number  One  and  Number 
Eighty-Two ! 

And  Breen  didn't  know  what  he  had  done  even  after 
the  details  began  to  pour  in.  How  could  he  know? 
What  was  Eighty-Two  doing  east  of  Muddy  Lake? 
She  should  have  been  waiting  there  for  Number  One 
to  pass  her.  The  order  book  showed  that  plain 
enough.  And  all  through  the  rest  of  that  night,  while 
he  worked  like  a  madman  clearing  the  line,  getting 
up  hospital  relief,  and  wrecking  trains — with  Carle- 
ton,  he  was  super  then,  gray- faced  and  haggard,  like 
the  master  of  a  storm-tossed  liner  on  his  bridge  giving 
orders,  pacing  the  room,  cursing  at  times  at  his  own 
impotency — Breen  didn't  know,  neither  of  them  knew, 
where  the  blame  lay.  But  the  horror  of  the  thing  had 
Breen  in  its  grip  even  then.  I  was  there  that  night, 
and  I  can  see  him  now  bent  over  under  the  green- 
shaded  lamp — I  can  see  Carleton's  face,  and  it  wasn't 
a  pleasant  face  to  see.  One  thing  I  remember  Breen 
said.  Once,  as  the  sounder  pitilessly  clicked  a  message 
more  ghastly  than  any  that  had  gone  before,  adding 


SO       ON   THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

to  the  number  of  those  whose  lives  had  gone  out  for- 
ever, adding  to  the  tale  of  the  wounded,  to  the  wild, 
mad  story  of  chaos  and  ruin,  Breen  lifted  his  head  from 
the  key  for  a  moment,  pushed  his  hair  out  of  his  eyes 
with  a  nervous,  shaky  sweep  of  his  hand,  and  looked 
at  Carleton. 

"  It's  horrible,  horrible,"  he  whispered ;  "  but  think 
of  the  man  who  did  it.  Death  would  be  easy  compared 
to  what  he  must  feel.  It  makes  me  as  weak  as  a  kitten 
to  think  of  it,  Carleton.  My  God,  man,  don't  you  see ! 
I,  or  any  other  dispatcher,  might  do  this  same  thing 
to-morrow,  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after.  Tell 
me  again,  Carleton,  tell  me  again,  that  order's 
straight." 

"  Don't  lose  your  nerve/'  Carleton  answered 
sharply.  "  Whoever  has  blundered,  it's  not  you." 

Irony?  No.  It's  beyond  all  that,  isn't  it?  It's 
getting  about  as  near  to  the  tragedy  of  a  man's  life 
as  you  can  get.  It's  getting  as  deep  and  tapping  as 
near  bed-rock  as  we'll  ever  do  this  side  of  the  Great 
Divide.  Think  of  it !  Think  of  Breen  that  night — it's 
too  big  to  get,  isn't  it  ?  God  pity  him !  Those  words 
of  his  have  rung  in  my  ears  all  these  years,  and  that 
scene  I  can  see  over  again  in  every  detail  every  time  I 
close  my  eyes. 

In  the  few  hours  left  before  dawn  that  morning, 
there  wasn't  time  to  give  much  attention  to  the  cause. 
There  was  enough  else  to  think  of,  enough  to  give 
every  last  man  on  the  division  from  car  tink  to  super- 
intendent all,  and  more,  than  they  could  handle — the 
investigation  could  come  later.  But  it  never  came. 


"IF    A    MAN    DIE"  51 

There  was  no  need  for  one.  How  did  they  find  out? 
It  came  like  the  crack  of  doom,  and  Breen  got  it — got 
it — and  it  seemed  to  burst  the  floodgates  of  his  mem- 
ory open,  seemed  to  touch  that  dormant  chord,  and  he 
knew,  knew  as  he  knew  that  he  had  a  God,  what  he 
had  done. 

They  found  the  order  that  made  the  meeting  point 
Elktail  tucked  in  Mooney's  jumper  when,  after  they 
got  the  crane  at  work,  they  hauled  him  out  from  under 
his  engine.  Who  was  Mooney?  Engineer  of  the 
freight.  They  found  him  before  they  did  any  of  his 
train  crew,  or  his  fireman  either,  for  that  matter. 
Dead?  Yes.  I'm  a  dispatcher,  look  at  it  from  the 
other  side  if  you  want  to,  it's  only  fair.  That  bit  of 
tissue  cleared  Mooney,  of  course — but  it  sent  him  to 
his  death.  Yes,  I  know,  good  God,  don't  you  think  I 
know  what  it  means — to  slip? 

It  was  just  before  Davis,  Breen's  relief,  came  on 
for  the  morning  trick,  in  fact  Davis  was  in  the  room, 
when  Breen  got  the  report.  He  scribbled  it  on  a  pad, 
word  by  word  as  it  came  in,  for  Carleton  to  see.  For  a 
minute  it  didn't  seem  to  mean  anything  to  him,  and 
then,  as  I  say,  he  got  it.  I  never  saw  such  a  look  on 
a  man's  face  before,  and  I  pray  God  I  never  may  again. 
He  seemed  to  wither  up,  blasted  as  the  oak  is  blasted 
by  a  lightning  stroke.  The  horror,  the  despair,  the 
agony  in  his  eyes  are  beyond  any  words  of  mine  to 
describe,  and  you  wouldn't  want  to  hear  it  if  I  could 
tell  you.  He  held  out  his  arms  pitifully  like  a  pleading 
child.  His  lips  moved,  but  he  had  to  try  over  and  over 
again  before  any  sound  came  from  them.  There  was  no 


52       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

thought  of  throwing  the  blame  on  anybody  else. 
Breen  wasn't  that  kind.  Oh,  yes,  he  could  have  done 
it.  He  could  have  put  the  blunder  on  the  night  man 
at  the  Gap  where  Mooney  received  his  Elktail  holding 
order,  and  Breen's  order  book  would  have  left  it  an 
open  question  as  to  which  of  the  two  had  made  the 
mistake — would  probably  have  let  him  out  and  damned 
the  other.  You  say  from  the  way  he  acted  he  didn't 
think  of  that  and  therefore  the  temptation  didn't  come 
to  him.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  Not  so  much 
to  Breen's  credit,  what?  Well,  I  don't  know,  it  de- 
pends on  the  way  you  look  at  it.  I'd  rather  believe 
the  thought  didn't  come  because  the  man's  soul  was  too 
clean.  It  was  clean  them — no  matter  what  he  did  after- 
ward. 

There  have  been  death  scenes  of  dispatchers  before, 
many  of  them — there  will  be  others  in  the  days  to 
come,  many  of  them.  So  long  as  there  are  railroads 
and  so  long  as  men  are  frail  as  men,  lacking  the  infal- 
libility of  a  higher  power,  just  so  long  will  they  be 
inevitable.  But  no  death  scene  of  a  dispatcher's  career 
was  ever  as  this  one  was.  Breen  was  his  own  judge, 
his  own  jury,  his  own  executioner.  Do  you  think  I 
could  ever  forget  his  words?  He  pointed  his  hand 
toward  the  window  that  faced  the  western  stretch  of 
track,  toward  the  foothills,  toward  the  mighty  peaks 
of  the  Rockies  that  towered  beyond  them,  and  the  life, 
the  being  of  the  man  was  in  his  voice.  They  came 
slowly,  those  words,  wrenched  from  a  broken  heart, 
torn  from  a  shuddering  soul. 

"  I   wish  to  God  that  it  were  me  in  their  stead. 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE"  53 

Christ  be  merciful !  I  did  it,  Carleton.  I  don't  know 
how.  I  did  it." 

No  one  answered  him.  No  one  spoke.  For  a 
moment  that  seemed  like  all  eternity  there  was  silence, 
then  Breen,  his  arms  still  held  out  before  him,  walked 
across  the  room  as  a  blind  man  walks  in  his  own  utter 
darkness,  walked  to  the  door  and  passed  out — alone. 
Those  few  steps  across  the  room — alone !  I've  thought 
of  that  pretty  often  since — they  seemed  so  horribly, 
grimly,  significantly  in  keeping  with  what  there  was  of 
life  left  for  the  stricken  man — alone.  It's  a  pretty 
hard  word,  that,  sometimes,  and  sometimes  it  brings 
the  tears. 

I  don't  know  how  I  let  him  go  like  that.  I  was  too 
stunned  to  move  I  guess,  but  I  reached  him  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  as  he  stepped  out  onto  the  platform. 
There  wasn't  anything  I  could  say,  was  there  ?  What 
would  you  have  said? 

No  man  knew  better  than  Breen  himself  what  this 
would  mean  to  him.  He  was  wrecked,  wrecked  worse 
than  that  other  wreck,  for  his  was  a  living  death. 
There  weren't  any  grand  jurys  or  things  of  that  kind 
out  here  then,  not  that  it  would  have  made  any  differ- 
ence to  Breen  if  there  had  been.  You  can't  put  any 
more  water  in  a  pail  when  it's  already  full,  can  you? 
You  can't  add  to  the  maximum,  can  you  ?  Don't  you 
think  Breen's  punishment  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
man  or  men  to  add  to,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  abate  by 
so  much  as  the  smallest  fraction?  It  was,  God  knows 
it  was — all  except  one  final  twinge,  that  I  believe  now 
settled  him,  though  I'll  say  here  that  whatever  it  did 


54       ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

to  Breen  it's  not  for  me  to  judge  her.  Who  am  I, 
that  I  should  ?  It  is  between  her  and  her  Maker.  I'll 
come  to  that  in  a  minute. 

Yes,  Breen  knew  well  enough  what  it  meant  to  him, 
but  his  thoughts  that  morning  as  we  walked  up  the 
street  weren't,  I  know  right  well,  on  himself — he  was 
thinking  of  those  others.  And  I,  well,  I  was  thinking 
of  Breen.  Wouldn't  you?  I  told  you  I  owed  Breen 
everything  I  had  in  the  world.  Neither  of  us  said  a 
word  all  the  way  up  to  his  boarding-house.  It  was 
almost  as  though  I  wasn't  with  him  for  all  the  atten- 
tion he  paid  to  me.  But  he  knew  I  was  there  just  the 
same.  I  like  to  think  of  that.  I  wasn't  very  old  then — 
I'm  not  offering  that  as  an  excuse,  for  I'm  not  ashamed 
to  admit  that  I  was  near  to  tears — if  I'd  been  older 
perhaps  I  could  have  said  or  done  something  to  help. 
As  it  was,  all  I  could  do  was  to  turn  that  one  black 
thought  over  and  over  and  over  again  in  my  mind. 
Breen's  living  death,  death,  death,  death.  That's  the 
way  it  hit  me,  the  way  it  caught  me,  and  the  word 
clung  and  repeated  itself  as  I  kept  step  beside  him. 

He  was  dead,  dead  to  hope,  ambition,  future,  every- 
thing, as  dead  as  though  he  lay  outstretched  before  me 
in  his  coffin.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  see  him  that  way. 
And  then,  don't  ask  me  why,  I  don't  know,  I  only  know 
such  things  happen,  come  upon  you  unconsciously, 
suddenly,  there  flashed  into  my  mind  that  bit  of  verse 
from  the  Bible,  you  know  it — "  if  a  man  die,  shall  he 
live  again  ?  "  I  must  have  said  it  out  loud  without 
knowing  it,  for  he  whirled  upon  me  quick  as  ligKtning, 
placed  his  two  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  stared 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE"  55 

with  a  startled  gaze  into  my  eyes.  I  say  startled.  It 
was,  but  there  was  more.  There  seemed  for  a  second 
a  gleam  of  hope  awakened,  hungry,  oh,  how  hungry, 
pitiful  in  its  yearning,  and  then  the  uselessness,  the 
futility  of  that  hope  crushed  it  back,  stamped  it  out, 
and  the  light  in  his  eyes  grew  dull  and  died  away. 

We  had  halted  at  the  door  of  his  boarding-house 
and  I  made  as  though  to  go  upstairs  with  him  to  his 
room,  but  he  stopped  me. 

"  Not  now,  Charlie,  boy,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
and  trying  to  smile ;  "  not  now.  I  want  to  be  alone." 

And  so  I  left  him. 

Alone !  He  wanted  to  be  alone.  Were  ever  words 
more  full  of  cruel  mockery !  It  seems  hard  to  under- 
stand sometimes,  doesn't  it  ?  And  we  get  to  question- 
ing things  we'd  far  better  leave  alone.  I  know  at  first 
I  used  to  wonder  why  Almighty  God  ever  let  Breen 
make  that  slip.  He  could  have  stopped  it,  couldn't 
He?  But  that's  not  right.  We're  running  on  train 
orders  from  the  Great  Dispatcher,  and  the  finite  can't 
span  the  infinite. 

Maybe  you'll  think  it  queer  that  I  left  Breen  like 
that,  let  him  go  to  his  room  alone.  You're  thinking 
that  in  his  condition  he  might  do  himself  harm — end 
it  all,  to  put  it  bluntly.  Well,  that  thought  didn't 
come  to  me  then,  it  did  afterward,  but  not  then.  Why  ? 
It  must  have  been  just  the  innate  consciousness  that  he 
wouldn't  do  that  sort  of  thing.  Some  men  face  things 
one  way,  some  face  them  another.  It's  a  question  of 
individuality  and  temperament.  I  don't  think  Breen 
could  have  done  anything  like  that,  I  know  he  seemed 


56       ON   THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

so  far  apart  from  it  in  my  mind  that,  as  I  say,  the 
thought  didn't  come  to  me.  He  was  too  big  a  man, 
big  enough  to  have  faced  what  was  before  him,  faced 
conditions,  faced  the  men,  though  God  knows  they 
treated  him  like  skulking  coyote,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her.  I  want  to  stand  right  on  this.  Breen  would 
never  have  done  what  he  did  if  she  had  acted  differ- 
ently. That  much  I  know.  But,  I  want  to  say  it 
again,  I've  no  right  to  judge  her. 

Perhaps  you've  read  that  story  of  Kipling's  about 
the  Black  Tyrone  Regiment  that  saw  their  dead? 
Well,  Breen,  as  I  told  you,  at  the  beginning,  wasn't 
popular,  and  the  boys  had  seen  their  dead.  Do  you 
understand?  Pariah,  outcast,  what  you  like,  they 
made  him,  all  except  pity  they  gave  him,  and  I  say  he 
would  have  taken  it  all,  accepted  it  all,  only  there 
are  some  things  too  heavy  for  a  man  to  bear,  aren't 
there?  Load  limit,  the  engineers  call  it  when  they 
build  their  bridge.  Well,  there's  a  load  limit  on  the 
heart  and  brain  and  soul  of  a  man  just  as  there  is  on  a 
bridge;  and  while  one,  strained  beyond  the  breaking 
point,  goes  crashing  in  a  horrid  mass  of  twisted  wreck- 
age to  the  bottom  of  the  canon,  to  the  bottom  of  the 
gorge,  into  the  rushing,  boiling  waters  of  the  river 
beneath,  the  other  crashes,  a  damned  soul,  to  the 
bottom  of  hell.  Kitty  Mooney  had  seen  her  dead. 
Kitty  Mooney,  the  engineer's  sister !  And  Breen  loved 
her,  was  going  to  marry  her.  That's  all. 

How  do  I  know?  How  do  you  know?  Perhaps  it 
was  grief,  perhaps  it  was  hysteria,  perhaps  it  was  ac- 
cording to  the  light  God  gave  her  and  she  couldn't 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE"  57 

understand,  perhaps  it  was  only  wild,  unreasoning, 
frantic  passion.  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  she  called 
him — a  murderer.  She  couldn't  have  loved  him,  you 
say.  Perhaps  no,  perhaps  yes.  Does  it  make  any  dif- 
ference ?  Breen  thought  she  did,  and  Breen  loved  her. 
I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  where  he  looked  for 
a  ray  of  mercy,  her  mercy,  to  light  the  blackened 
depths,  for  the  touch,  her  touch,  that  would  have  held 
him  back  from  the  brink,  for  the  word  of  comfort,  her 
word,  that  would  have  bid  him  stand  like  a  gallant 
soldier  facing  untold  odds,  he  received,  instead,  a  con- 
demnation more  terrible  than  any  that  had  gone  be- 
fore, and  a  bleeding  heart  dried  bitter  as  gall,  a  patient, 
grief-stricken  man  became  a  vicious  snapping  wolf,  and 
"  Angel  "  Breen— a  devil. 

Would  I  have  been  a  stronger  man  than  Breen? 
Would  you?  Would  I  have  done  differently  than 
Kitty  Mooney  did  if  I  had  been  in  her  place  ?  Would 
you  ?  We  don't  know,  do  we  ?  No  one  knows.  God 
keep  us  from  ever  knowing.  The  poor  devil  in  the 
gutters,  the  wretched,  ruined  lives  of  women  who  have 
lost  their  grip  and  drunk  the  dregs,  the  human, 
stranded,  battered  wrecks  we  see  around  us,  were  once 
like  you  and  me.  We  don't  know,  do  we?  God  pity 
them!  God  keep  us  from  the  sneer!  Our  strength 
has  never  been  measured.  It  may  be  no  greater  than 
theirs.  To-morrow  it  may  be  you  or  I. 

It  was  pretty  lawless  out  here  in  those  days.  We 
had  the  riff-raff  of  the  East,  and  worse ;  and  there  was 
nothing  to  restrain  them,  nothing  much  to  keep  them 
in  check,  and  they  did  about  as  they  liked.  They 


58       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

brought  the  touch  into  the  picture  of  the  West  that 
the  West  hasn't  lived  down  yet,  and  I'm  not  sure  ever 
will.  The  brawling,  gambling,  gun-handling  type,  the 
thief,  the  desperado,  the  bad  man,  rotten  bad,  bad  to 
the  core.  They've  been  stamped  out  now  most  of 
them,  but  it  was  different  then.  They  didn't  turn  a 
cold  shoulder  to  Breen.  Why  should  they?  They 
were  outcasts  and  pariahs,  too,  weren't  they?  And 
Breen,  well,  I  guess  you  understand  as  well  as  I  do, 
and  you  know  as  I  know  that  when  a  man  like  that 
goes  he  goes  the  limit.  There's  no  middle  course  for 
some  men,  they're  not  made  that  way. 

Whatever  holds  them  for  good,  or  whatever  holds 
them  for  bad,  it  holds  them  all,  either  way,  all,  body, 
mind  and  spirit,  all.  And  that  is  true  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that,  often  enough,  there's  some  one  thing,  it  may 
be  a  little  thing,  it  may  be  a  big  thing,  but  some  one 
thing  that  the  worst  of  us  balk  at,  can't  do.  It's  not 
morality,  it's  not  conscience,  a  man  gets  way  beyond 
all  that;  it's  a  memory  of  the  past  perhaps,  a  some- 
thing bred  in  him  from  babyhood.  I  don't  know. 
You  can't  treat  human  nature  like  a  specimen  on  the 
glass  slide  under  a  microscope.  There  is  no  specimen. 
As  there  are  millions  of  people,  so  is  each  one  in  some 
way  different  from  the  other.  You  can't  classify,  you 
can't  tabulate  the  different  kinks  into  a  list  and  learn 
it  by  heart,  can  you?  The  man  who  says  he  knows 
human  nature  says  he  is  as  wise  as  the  God  who  made 
him,  and  that  man  is  a  poor  fool.  That's  right,  isn't 
it  ?  And  so  I  say  that,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  in  the 
worst  of  us,  fall  as  low  as  we  will,  there's  generally 


"IF   A   MAN    DIE"  59 

some  one  thing  our  soul,  what's  left  of  it,  revolts  at 
doing.  Breen  was  a  railroad  man.  Railroading  was 
in  his  blood.  I  want  you  to  get  that.  It  was  part  of 
him.  Any  man  that's  worth  his  salt  in  this  business 
is  that  way.  It's  in  the  blood  or  it  isn't ;  you're  a  rail- 
road man  or  you're  not. 

Breen  disappeared  from  Big  Cloud  and  I  didn't  see 
him  from  the  day  Kitty  Mooney  turned  him  from  her 
door  until  the  night — but  I'm  coming  to  that — that's 
the  end.  There's  a  word  or  two  that  goes  before — so 
that  you'll  understand.  He  disappeared  from  Big 
Cloud,  but  he  didn't  leave  the  mountains.  Maybe 
back  of  it  all,  an  almost  impossible  theory  if  you  like, 
but  I  can  understand  it,  a  something  in  him  wouldn't 
let  him  run  away.  He  did  run  away,  you  say.  Yes, 
but  there's  the  queer  brain  kink  again.  Perhaps  he 
temporized.  You  temporize.  I  temporize.  We  try 
to  fool  and  delude  sometimes,  snatch  at  loopholes, 
snatch  at  straws,  to  bolster  up  our  self-respect,  don't 
we?  That's  what  I  mean  when  I  say  it's  possible  he 
couldn't  run  away.  He  clung  to  the  straw,  the  loop- 
hole, that  running  away  was  measured  in  miles.  I 
don't  say  that  was  it,  for  I  don't  know.  It's  possible. 
We  heard  of  him  from  time  to  time  as  the  months 
went  by,  and  the  things  we  heard  weren't  pleasant 
things  to  hear.  He  drifted  from  bad  to  worse,  until 
that  something  that  he  couldn't  do  brought  him  to  a 
halt — brought  the  end. 

Don't  ask  me  when  Breen  threw  in  his  lot  with 
Black  Dempsey  and  the  band  of  fiends  that  called  him 
leader — the  ugliest,  soul-blackened  set  of  fiends  that 


60       ON   THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

ever  polluted  the  West,  and  that's  using  pretty  strong 
language.  Don't  ask  me  how  Breen  got  to  Big  Cloud 
that  night  away  from  the  others  waiting  to  begin  their 
hellish  work.  Don't  ask  me.  I  don't  know.  Why 
he  did  it — is  different.  That,  I  can  tell  you.  What 
they  wanted  him  to  do,  to  have  a  part  in,  was  that  one 
thing  I  was  speaking  about,  the  one  thing  he  couldn't 
do.  Breen  was  a  railroad  man,  railroading  was  in  his 
blood,  that's  all — but  it's  everything — railroading  was 
in  his  blood.  As  for  the  rest,  maybe  he  didn't  know 
what  they  were  really  up  to  until  the  last  moment,  and 
then  stole  away  from  them.  Maybe  they  found  it  out, 
suspected  him,  and  some  of  them  followed  him,  tried 
to  stop  him,  tried  to  keep  him  from  reaching  here. 
But  what's  the  use  of  speculating?  I  never  knew,  I 
never  will  know.  Breen  can't  tell  me,  can  he?  And 
all  that  I  can  tell  you  is  what  I  saw  and  heard  that 
night. 

I  had  the  night  trick  then — Breen's  job — they  gave 
me  Breen's  job.  It  seemed  somehow  at  first  like  sacri- 
lege to  take  it — as  though  I  was  robbing  him  of  it, 
taking  it  away  from  him,  wronging,  stripping,  im- 
poverishing the  man  to  whom  I  owed  even  the  knowl- 
edge that  made  me  fit,  that  made  it  possible,  to  hold 
down  a  key — his  key.  Of  course,  that  was  only  sen- 
sitiveness, but  you  understand,  don't  you?  It  caught 
me  hard  when  I  first  "  sat  in,"  but  gradually  the  feel- 
ing wore  off;  not  that  I  ever  forgot,  I  haven't  yet  for 
that  matter,  only  time  blunts  the  sharp  edges,  and 
routine,  habit,  and  custom  do  the  rest.  I  don't  need 
to  tell  you  that  I  remember  that  night.  Remember  it ! 


"IF    A    MAN    DIE"  61 

That  was  before  this  station  was  built,  and  in  those 
days  we  had  an  old  wooden  shack  here  that  did  duty 
for  freight  house,  station,  division  headquarters,  and 
everything  else  all  rolled  into  one.  The  dispatcher's 
room  was  upstairs. 

Things  were  moving  slick  as  a  whistle  that  night. 
No  extra  traffic,  no  road  troubles,  in — out,  in — out,  all 
along  the  line  the  trains  were  running  like  clockwork 
from  one  end  of  the  division  to  the  other.  If  there  was 
anything  on  my  mind  at  all  it  was  the  Limited,  Number 
Two,  eastbound.  We  were  handling  a  good  deal  of 
gold  in  those  days,  there  was  a  lot  of  it  being  shipped 
East  then — is  still,  from  the  Klondyke  now,  you  know 
— and  we  were  getting  a  fair  share  of  the  business 
away  from  the  southern  competition.  We  hadn't  had 
any  trouble,  weren't  looking  for  any,  but  it  was  pretty 
generally  understood  that  all  shipments  of  that  kind 
were  to  get  special  attention.  Number  Two  was  carry- 
ing an  extra  express  car  with  a  consignment  for  the 
mint  that  night,  so,  naturally,  I  had  kept  my  eye  on  her 
more  closely  than  usual  all  the  way  through  the  moun- 
tains from  the  time  I  got  her  from  the  Pacific  Divi- 
sion. At  the  time  I'm  speaking  about,  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  I  was  almost  clear  of  her,  for  she  wasn't 
much  west  of  Coyote  Bend,  fifteen  miles  from  here, 
and  she  had  rights  all  the  way  in.  Half  an  hour  more 
at  the  most,  and  she  would  be  off  my  hands  and  up  to 
the  dispatchers  of  the  Prairie  Division.  She  had  held 
her  schedule  to  the  tick  every  foot  of  the  way,  and  all 
I  was  waiting  for  was  the  call  from  Coyote  Bend  that 
would  report  her  in  and  out  again  into  the  clear  for 


62       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

Big  Cloud.  Coyote  Bend  is  the  first  station  west  of 
here,  you  understand?  There's  nothing  between. 
She  was  due  at  Coyote  at  4.05,  and  I  want  you  to 
remember  this — I  said  it  before,  but  I  want  to  repeat 
it.  I  want  you  to  get  it  hard — she  had  run  to  the 
second  all  through  the  night. 

My  watch  was  open  on  the  table  before  me,  and  I 
watched  the  minute  hand  creep  round  the  dial.  4.03, 
4.04,  4.05,  4.06,  4.07,  4.08.  I  was  alone  in  the  office. 
The  night  caller  had  gone  out  perhaps  ten  minutes 
before  to  call  the  train  crew  of  the  five  o'clock  local. 
There  wasn't  anything  to  be  nervous  about.  I  don't 
put  it  down  to  that.  Three  minutes  wasn't  anything. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  impatience,  fretfulness.  You 
know  how  it  is  when  you're  waiting  for  something  to 
happen,  and  I  was  expecting  the  sounder  to  break 
every  second  with  that  report  from  Coyote  Bend. 
Anyway,  put  it  down  to  what  you  like,  though  I  didn't 
want  a  drink  particularly  I  pushed  back  my  chair,  got 
up,  and  walked  over  to  the  water  cooler.  The 
dispatcher's  table  was  on  the  east  side  of  the  room, 
the  door  opened  on  the  south  side,  and  the  water 
cooler  was  over  in  the  opposite  corner.  I'm  explain- 
ing this  so  that  you'll  understand  that  the  door  was 
between  the  wat^r  cooler  and  the  table.  That  old 
shack  was  rough  and  ready,  and  I've  wondered  more 
than  once  what  ever  kept  it  from  falling  to  pieces.  It 
didn't  take  more  than  a  breath  of  wind  to  set  every 
window-sash  in  the  outfit  rattling  like  a  corps  of  snare 
drums.  That's  why,  I  guess,  I  didn't  hear  any  one 
coming  up  the  stairs.  It  was  blowing  pretty  hard  that 


"IF    A    MAN    DIE"  63 

night.  But  I  heard  the  door  open.  I  thought  it  was 
the  caller  back  again,  and  I  wondered  how  he'd  made 
his  rounds  in  such  quick  time.  With  the  tumbler  half 
up  to  my  lips  I  turned  around — then  the  glass  slipped 
from  my  fingers  and  crashed  into  slivers  on  the  floor. 
My  mouth  went  dry,  my  heart  seemed  to  stop.  I 
couldn't  speak,  couldn't  move.  It  was  Breen — 
"Angel"  Breen! 

I  saw  him  start  at  the  noise  of  the  splintering  glass, 
but  he  didn't  look  at  me.  He  clung  swaying  to  the 
door  jamb  for  an  instant,  his  face  chalky  white,  then 
he  reeled  across  the  room — and  dropped  into  his  old 
chair.  I  saw  him  glance  at  my  watch  and  his  face 
seemed  to  go  whiter  than  before,  then  he  snatched 
at  the  train  sheet  and  a  smile — no,  it  wasn't  exactly  a 
smile,  you  couldn't  call  it  that,  his  whole  face  seemed 
to  change,  light  up,  and  his  lips  moved — I  know  now 
in  a  prayer  of  gratitude.  You  understand,  don't  you  ? 
He  knew  the  time-card,  knew  that  Number  Two,  after 
he  had  seen  my  watch,  should  have  been  out  of  Coyote 
Bend  four,  perhaps  five,  minutes  before,  but  the  train 
sheet  showed  her  still  unreported.  His  fingers  closed 
on  the  key  and  he  began  to  make  the  Coyote  Bend 
call.  Over  and  over,  quick,  sharp,  clear,  incisive,  with 
all  the  old  masterful  touch  of  his  sending  Breen  was 
rattling  the  call — cc,cx — cc,cx — cc,cx — cc,cx. 

And  then  I  found  my  voice. 

"  God  in  Heaven,  Breen !  "  I  stammered,  and  started 
toward  him.  "You!  What " 

The  sounder  broke.  Coyote  Bend  answered.  And 
on  the  instant  Breen  flashed  this  order  over  the  wire. 


64       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"Hold  Number  Two.  Hold  Number  Two  "— 
twice  the  sender  spelled  out  the  words. 

Then  Coyote  Bend  repeated  the  order,  and  Breen 
gave  back  the  O.  K. 

"  Breen! "  I  shouted.  "  What  are  you  doing?  Are 
you  crazy!  What  are  you  doing  here?  Speak,  man, 
what " 

He  had  straightened  in  his  chair,  and  a  sort  of  low, 
catchy  gasp  came  from  his  lips.  It  seemed  as  though 
it  took  all  his  power,  all  his  strength,  to  lift  his  eyes 
to  mine.  I  sprang  for  the  key,  but  he  jerked  himself 
suddenly  forward  and  pushed  me  desperately  away. 
And  then  he  called  me  by  the  old  name,  not  much 
above  a  whisper,  I  could  hardly  catch  the  words,  and 
I  didn't  understand,  didn't  know,  that  the  man  before 
me  was  a  wounded,  dying  man.  My  brain  was 
whirling,  full  of  that  other  night,  full  of  the 
days  and  months  that  had  followed.  I  couldn't 
think.  I 

"  Charlie — boy,  it's  all  right.  Black  Dempsey  in  the 
Cut.  I  was  afraid  I  was  too  late — too  late.  They  shot 
— me — here  " — he  was  tearing  with  his  fingers  at  his 
waistcoat. 

And  then  I  understood — too  late.  As  I  reached  for 
him,  he  swayed  forward  and  toppled  over,  a  huddled 
heap,  over  the  key,  over  the  order  book,  over  the  train 
sheet  that  once  had  taken  his  life  and  now  had  given  it 
back  to  him — dead. 

What  is  there  to  say  ?  Whatever  he  may  have  done, 
however  far  he  may  have  fallen,  back  of  it  all,  through 
it  all,  bigger  than  himself,  stronger  than  any  other 


"IF   A    MAN    DIE"  65 

bond  was  the  railroading  that  was  in  his  blood.  Breen 
was  a  railroad  man. 

I  don't  know  why,  do  I?  You  don't  know  why, 
after  Number  Two  had  run  to  schedule  all  that  night, 
it  happened  just  when  it  did.  It  might  have  happened 
at  some  other  time — but  it  didn't.  Luck  or  chance  if 
you  like,  more  than  that  if  you'd  rather  think  of  it  in 
another  way,  but  just  a  few  miles  west  of  Coyote  Bend 
something  went  wrong  in  the  cab  of  Number  Two. 
Nothing  much,  I  don't  remember  now  what  it  was, 
don't  know  that  I  ever  knew,  nothing  much.  Just 
enough  to  hold  her  back  a  few  minutes,  the  few  minutes 
that  let  Breen  sit  in  again  on  the  night  dispatcher's 
trick,  sit  in  again  at  the  key,  hold  down  his  old  job  once 
more  before  he  quit  railroading  forever  with  the  order 
that  he  gave  his  life  to  send,  to  keep  Number  Two  from 
rushing  to  death  and  destruction  against  the  rocks  and 
boulders  Black  Dempsey  and  his  gang  had  piled  across 
the  track  in  the  Cut  five  miles  east  of  Coyote  Bend. 

I  don't  know.  "  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?  " 
I  leave  it  to  you.  I  only  know  that  they  think  a  lot  of 
him  out  here,  think  a  lot  of  Breen,  "  Angel  "  Breen — 
now. 


IV 
SPITZER 

SPITZER  was  just  naturally  born  diffident.  Some- 
times that  sort  of  thing  wears  off  as  one  grows  older, 
sometimes  it  doesn't.  When  it  doesn't,  it  is  worse  than 
the  most  virulent  disease — -it  had  been  virulent  with 
Spitzer  for  all  of  his  twenty-two  years. 

Spitzer  wasn't  much  to  look  at,  neither  was  he  of 
much  account  on  the  Hill  Division.  Some  men  rise 
to  occasions,  others  don't;  as  for  Spitzer — well,  he 
was  a  snubby-nosed,  peaked-faced,  touzled-haired 
little  fellow  with  washed-out  blue  eyes  that  always 
seemed  to  carry  around  an  apology  in  their  depths  that 
their  owner  existed,  and  this  idea  was  backed  up  a  good 
bit  by  Spitzer's  voice.  Spitzer  had  a  weak  voice  and 
that  militated  against  him.  The  ordinary  voice  of  the 
ordinary  man  on  the  Hill  Division  was  not  weak — it 
was  assertive.  Spitzer  suffered  thereby  because  every- 
body crawled  over  him.  Nobody  thought  anything  of 
Spitzer.  They  all  knew  him,  of  course,  that  is,  those 
whose  duties  brought  them  within  the  zone  of  Spitzer's 
orbit,  which  was  restricted  to  Big  Cloud  or,  rather,  to 
the  roundhouse  at  Big  Cloud.  Nobody  ever  gave  him 
credit  for  courage  enough  to  call  his  soul  his  own. 
Even  when  it  came  to  pay  day  he  took  his  check  as 

66 


SPITZER  67 

though  it  was  a  mistake  and  that  it  really  wasn't  meant 
for  him.  He  just  dubbed  along,  doing  his  work  day 
after  day  like  a  faithful  dog,  only  he  was  a  hanged 
sight  less  obtrusive.  Summed  up  in  a  word,  Spitzer 
ranked  as  a  nonentity,  physically,  mentally,  pro- 
fessionally. 

Of  course  he  never  got  ahead.  He  just  kept  on 
sweeping  out  the  roundhouse  and  puttering  around 
playing  bell-boy  to  every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  that 
lifted  a  finger  at  him.  Year  in,  year  out,  he  swept 
and  wiped  in  the  roundhouse.  As  far  as  seniority  went 
he  was  it,  but  when  it  came  to  promotion  he  wasn't. 
Promotion  and  Spitzer  were  so  obviously,  so  ostenta- 
tiously at  variance  with  each  other  that  no  one  ever 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  When  there  was  a  vacancy 
others  got  it.  Spitzer  saw  them  move  along,  firing, 
driving  spare,  up  to  full-fledged  regulars  on  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  cabs,  men  that  had  started  after  he 
did;  but  Spitzer  still  wiped  and  swept  out  the  round- 
house. 

Carleton,  the  super,  called  him  a  landmark,  and  that 
hit  the  bull's-eye.  Summer,  winter,  fall,  spring,  good 
weather,  bad  weather,  five-foot-five-with-his-boots-on 
Spitzer,  lugging  a  little  tin  dinner-pail,  trudged  down 
Main  Street  in  Big  Cloud  as  regular  as  clockwork, 
and  reported  at  the  roundhouse  at  precisely  the  same 
hour  every  morning — five  minutes  of  seven.  Never  a 
miss,  never  a  slip — five  minutes  of  seven.  The  train 
crews  got  to  setting  their  watches  by  him,  and  the  dis- 
patchers wired  the  meteorological  observatory  every 
time  their  chronometers  didn't  tally — that  is,  tally  with 


68       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

Spitzer — and  the  meteorological  crowd  put  Spitzer 
first  across  the  tape  every  shot. 

It  was  just  the  same  at  night,  only  then  Spitzer  went 
by  the  six  o'clock  whistle.  Ten  hours  a  day,  Sundays 
off — sometimes — wiping,  sweeping,  sweeping,  wiping, 
from  his  boarding-house  to  the  roundhouse  in  the 
morning,  from  the  roundhouse  to  his  boarding-house 
at  night — that  was  Spitzer,  self-effaced,  self-obliter- 
ated, innocuous,  modest  Spitzer. 

Night  times?  Spitzer  didn't  exist,  there  was  no 
Spitzer — it  wasn't  expected  of  him!  If  any  one  had 
been  asked  they  would  have  looked  their  amazement, 
but  then  no  one  ever  was  asked — or  asked,  which  is 
the  same  thing  the  other  way.  Spitzer  was  like  a  tool 
laid  away  after  the  day's  work  and  forgotten  absolutely 
and  profoundly  until  the  following  morning.  No  one 
knew  anything  about  Spitzer  after  the  six  o'clock 
whistle  blew,  no  one  knew  and  cared  less — that  is, 
none  of  the  railroad  crowd  knew,  and  they,  when 
all  is  said  and  done,  were  Big  Cloud,  they  owned 
it,  ran  it,  absorbed  it,  and  properly  so,  since 
Big  Cloud  was  the  divisional  point  on  the  Hill 
Division. 

In  the  ineffable  perversity  of  things  is  the  spice  and 
variety  of  life.  Tommy  Regan,  the  master  mechanic, 
was  a  man  not  easily  jolted,  not  easily  disturbed.  He 
was  very  short,  very  broad,  with  little  black  eyes,  and 
a  long,  scraggly,  drooping-at-the-corners,  brown  mus- 
tache. Also,  he  was  blessed  with  a  well-defined,  well- 
nourished  paunch — which  is  a  sign  irrefutable  of  con- 
tentment, a  calm  and  placid  outlook  upon  life  in  general 


SPITZER  69 

and  particular,  and  a  freedom  from  the  ills  of  haste 
and  worry.  A  man  with  a  paunch  is  a  man  apart  and 
greatly  to  be  envied,  even  when  that  paunch,  as  was 
the  case  with  Regan,  is  of  Irish  extraction,  for  then 
the  accompanying  touch  of  Celtic  temper  makes  him 
more  like  an  ordinary,  cross-grained,  irritable,  every- 
day mortal  and  less  of  a  temperamental  curiosity. 
Regan  was  justly  proud  of  both — his  paunch  and  his 
nationality.  Regan  put  it  the  other  way — his  nation- 
ality and  his  paunch.  That,  however,  is  a  matter  for 
individual  decision  and  the  relative  importance  of 
things  is  as  one  sees  it ;  the  main  thing  is  that  one  per- 
mitted him  to  use  fiery  words  on  occasion,  and  the 
other  enabled  him  to  preserve,  ordinarily,  a  much  to 
be  commended  state  of  equanimity. 

Perversity  of  perversities!  It  was  Spitzer  that 
jolted  Regan — not  once,  more  than  once.  And  before 
he  got  through,  jolted  him  so  hard  that  Regan  hasn't 
got  over  the  wonder  of  it  yet. 

"  Think  of  it/'  he'll  say,  when  the  subject  is  brought 
up.  "  Think  of  it !  You  know  Spitzer,  h'm  ?  Well, 
think  of  it !  SPITZER !  "  And  if  it's  summer  he'll  mop 
his  beady  brow,  and  if  it's  winter  he'll  twiddle  his 
thumbs  with  his  fingers  laced  over  his  embonpoint, 
which  is  to  say  over  the  lower  button  of  his  waist- 
coat. 

Regan's  first  jolt  came  to  him  one  morning  as, 
after  a  critical  inspection  of  his  pets  in  the  round- 
house— big  six-  and  eight-wheeled  mountain  engines — 
he  strolled  out  and  leaned  against  the  push-bar  on  the 
turntable,  mentally  debating  the  respective  merits  of  a 


70       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

rust-joint  and  a  straight  patch  as  specifically  applied 
to  number  583  that  had  been  run  into  the  shops  the  day 
before  for  repairs. 

A  figure  emerged  from  the  engine  doors  at  the  far 
end  of  the  roundhouse  and  came  toward  him.  Regan's 
eyes,  attracted,  barely  glanced  in  that  direction,  and 
then  went  down  again  in  meditation,  as  he  kicked  a 
little  hole  in  the  cinders  with  the  toe  of  his  boot — it 
was  only  Spitzer. 

When  he  looked  up  again  Spitzer  was  nearer,  quite 
near.  Spitzer  had  halted  before  him  and  was  standing 
there  patiently,  an  embarrassed  flush  on  his  cheeks, 
wiping  his  hands  nervously  on  an  exceedingly  dirty 
piece  of  packing  which  in  his  abstraction,  for  Spitzer 
was  plainly  abstracted,  he  had  picked  up  for  a  piece  of 
waste. 

"  Huh !  "  said  Regan,  staring  at  Spitzer's  hands, 
"  what  you  trying  to  do  ?  Black  up  for  a  minstrel 
show?" 

Spitzer  dropped  the  packing  as  though  it  had  been 
a  handful  of  thistles,  and  rubbed  his  hands  up  and 
down  the  legs  of  his  overalls. 

"Well?"  Regan  invited. 

Spitzer  began  to  talk,  rapidly,  hurriedly — that  is,  his 
lips  moved  rapidly,  hurriedly. 

Regan  listened  attentively  and  with  a  strained  and 
hopeless  expression,  as  he  strove  to  catch  a  word  and 
hence  the  drift  of  Spitzer's  remarks. 

"  How  ?  "  he  demanded,  when  he  saw  Spitzer  was  at 
an  end.  "  Speak  out,  man.  You  won't  wake  the  baby 
up." 


SPITZER  71 

Spitzer  began  all  over  again.  This  time  he  did  a 
little  better. 

"  A  dollar  twenty-five/'  repeated  the  master  me- 
chanic numbly. 

Spitzer  brightened  visibly,  and  nodded. 

Regan  stared,  bewildered  and  dumfounded.  Gradu- 
ally, impossible,  incomprehensible,  incongruous  as  it 
appeared,  it  dawned  on  him  that  Spitzer,  even  Spitzer, 
Spitzer  was  asking  for  a  raise! 

"  A  dollar  twenty-five,"  was  all  Regan  could  repeat 
over  again,  and  the  words  came  away  with  a  gasp. 

Spitzer,  misinterpreting  the  tone,  his  face  grew  rue- 
ful and  full  of  trouble.  He  was  appalled  at  his  own 
temerity  in  broaching  the  subject  in  the  first  place,  but 
now  he  had  overstepped  the  bounds — he  had  asked 
for  too  much ! 

"A  dollar  twenty,"  he  ventured,  in  timid  compro- 
mise— Spitzer  was  getting  a  dollar  fifteen. 

"  How  long  you  been  working  here  ?  "  inquired 
Regan,  recovering  a  little  and  beginning  to  get  a  grip 
on  himself. 

"  Four  years,"  said  Spitzer  faintly. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  mumbled  Regan.  "  Four  years.  A 
dollar  twenty-five,  h'm  ?  Well,  I  dunno,  I  guess  we  can 
manage  that."  And  then,  as  a  new  thought  suddenly 
struck  him :  "  What  the  blazes  would  you  do  with 
more  money,  h'm  ?  " 

But  Spitzer  only  grinned  sheepishly  as,  after  mur- 
muring his  thanks,  he  walked  back  and  disappeared  in 
the  roundhouse. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  muttered  Regan,  looking  after  him. 


72       ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  Four  years,  and  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,  and  Spitzer ! 
Good  Lord!" 

Regan  went  around  more  or  less  dazed  all  that  day. 
He  ordered  the  patch  on  583  when  he  had  definitely 
decided  on  the  rust- joint  as  the  best  tonic  for  the  en- 
gine's complaint,  and  he  figured  out  how  much  one 
dollar  and  fifteen  cents  a  day  came  to  for  a  year 
barring  Sundays,  then  he  did  the  same  with  a  dollar 
twenty-five  as  the  multiplicand  and  compared  the  re- 
sults. Spitzer's  demand  was  not  exorbitant,  and  it 
wasn't  much  to  upset  any  man — that  was  just  it — it 
was  Spitzer,  and  Spitzer  wasn't  much.  Effect,  psy- 
chological or  otherwise,  is  by  no  manner  of  means  to  be 
measured  by  the  mere  magnitude  of  the  cause,  it  is  the 
phenomenal  and  unusual  that  is  to  be  treated  with 
wholesome  respect,  and  for  safe  handling  requires  a 
double-tracked,  block  system  with  the  cautionary 
signals  up  from  start  to  finish — the  master  me- 
chanic found  it  that  way  anyhow,  and  he  ought  to 
know. 

He  unburdened  himself  that  night  after  supper  to 
Carleton  and  a  few  of  the  others  over  at  division  head- 
quarters, which  had  been  moved  upstairs  over  the  sta- 
tion, where  the  chiefs  used  to  meet  regularly  each 
evening  for  a  pipe,  with  a  round  of  pedro  thrown  in 
to  liven  things  up  a  bit — Big  Cloud  not  being  blessed 
with  many  attractions  in  the  amusement  line. 

Carleton  grinned. 

"  Bad  company,"  he  suggested.  "  Hard  lot,  that  of 
yours  over  in  the  roundhouse,  Tommy.  They're  spoil- 
ing his  manners.  Been  a  long  time  in  coming,  but  you 


SPITZER  73 

know  the  old  story  of  the  water  and  the  stone. 
What?" 

"  What  in  blazes  would  he  do  with  more  money  ?  " 
inquired  Spence,  the  chief  dispatcher,  in  unfeigned 
astonishment. 

Regan  glared  disdainfully.  He  had  put  precisely 
the  same  question  to  Spitzer  himself,  but  since  then 
he  had  been  brushing  up  his  mathematics. 

"Do  with  it!"  he  choked.  "Thirty  dollars  and 
eighty  cents — a  year.  Hell  of  a  problem,  ain't  it?  " 

"  Well,  you  needn't  run  off  your  schedule,"  said 
Spence,  a  little  tartly.  "  You're  the  one  that's  making 
most  of  the  fuss  over  it." 

"  Tell  you  what,  Tommy,"  remarked  Carleton,  still 
grinning,  "  you  want  to  look  out  for  Spitzer  from  now 
on.  I  guess  his  emancipation  has  begun — nothing  like 
a  start.  Before  you  know  it  he'll  be  running  rough- 
shod over  the  motive  power  department,  including  the 
master  mechanic." 

"  I  give  him  the  raise,"  said  Regan,  more  to  himself 
than  aloud.  "  'Twas  coming  to  him,  what  ?  Four 
years,  and  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  a  yip  out  of  him." 

'''  You'll  hear  more,"  prophesied  Carleton ;  "  even  if 
he  doesn't  talk  very  loud." 

"  Think  so  ?  "  said  Regan,  puckering  up  his  eyes. 

"  I  do,"  said  Carleton. 

And  Regan  did. 

Not  at  once,  not  for  several  weeks.  But  in  the  mean- 
time a  change  came  over  Spitzer.  He  swept  and  wiped 
and  reported  at  five  minutes  of  seven  every  morning 
and  kept  himself  just  as  much  in  the  background,  just 


74       ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

as  much  out  of  everybody's  way,  just  as  unobtrusive 
as  he  had  before,  but  Spitzer  was  none  the  less 
changed. 

It  began  the  day  after  he  got  his  raise.  It  was  an 
indefinite,  elusive,  negative  sort  of  a  change,  not  the 
kind  you  could  lay  your  hand  on  and  describe  in  so 
many  words.  Regan  tried  to,  and  gave  it  up.  The 
nearest  he  came  to  anything  concrete  was  one  day 
when  he  came  around  the  tail-end  of  a  tender  and,  un- 
expectedly, upon  Spitzer.  Spitzer  was  sweeping  as 
usual,  but  Spitzer  was  also  whistling — which  was  not 
usual.  Regan,  it  is  true,  couldn't  puzzle  very  much  out 
of  that,  but  then  Regan  had  his  limitations. 

Mindful  of  Carleton's  words,  Regan  kept  his  eye  in 
a  mildly  curious  kind  of  a  way  on  the  little  faded,  blue- 
eyed  drudge,  and  as  he  noticed  the  first  change  without 
being  able  to  define  it,  he  now,  after  a  week  or  so, 
noticed  a  second,  with  the  difference  that  this  time  the 
diagnosis  was  painfully  obvious — Spitzer 's  return  to 
Spitzer's  normal  self.  Spitzer  stopped  whistling. 

Regan  began  to  catch  Spitzer's  eyes  fixed  on  him 
with  a  hesitating,  irresolute,  anxious  gaze  about  every 
time  he  entered  the  roundhouse.  And  though  he  didn't 
quite  grasp  it,  something  of  the  truth  came  to  him. 
Spitzer  was  screwing  up  his  courage  to  the  sticking 
point  preparatory  to  another  step  onward  in  his  be- 
lated march  toward  emancipation. 

It  was  a  month  to  the  day  from  the  first  interview 
when  Spitzer  tackled  the  master  mechanic  again,  and 
as  before,  out  by  the  turntable  in  front  of  the  round- 
house, and,  if  anything,  in  a  manner  even  more  nervous 


SPITZER  75 

and  ill  at  ease  than  on  the  former  occasion.  He  stam- 
mered once  or  twice  in  an  effort  to  begin — and  his 
effort  was  utter  failure. 

Regan  eyed  him  in  profound  distrust.  Once  in  four 
years  wasn't  so  much,  and  after  all,  even  Spitzer,  now 
that  the  shock  was  over,  might  be  expected  to  do  that. 
But  again  in  a  month — and  from  Spitzer !  Something 
was  wrong — perhaps  Carleton  was  right. 

r<  Well,"  he  snapped,  "  you  got  your  raise.  Ain't 
you  satisfied  ?  " 

Spitzer  nodded  dumbly. 

"  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter  with  you  if  you're 
satisfied  ?  "  exploded  the  master  mechanic. 

"  I  want  to  get "  the  last  word  trailed  off  into 

tremulous,  quavering  incoherency. 

"  You  want  to  get  what  ?  "  growled  Regan.  "  Don't 
sputter  as  though  you'd  swallowed  your  teeth.  What 
is  it  you  want  to  get  ?  " 

"  Firing,"  blurted  Spitzer  after  a  desperate  struggle. 

Regan  gasped  for  his  breath.  Spitzer!  SPITZER 
— in  a  cab !  He  couldn't  have  heard  straight. 

"  Say  it  again,"  whispered  the  master  mechanic. 

"  Firing,"  repeated  Spitzer,  with  more  confidence 
now  that  the  plunge  was  taken. 

"  Yes,"  said  Regan  weakly  to  himself.  "  That's  it. 
I  got  it  right — firing !  He  wants  to  get  firing! " 

"  I— I  can  do  it,"  faltered  Spitzer.     "  I  got  to." 

"  Eh  ?  What's  that  ?  "  said  Regan.  "  You  got  to  ? 
Say,  you,  Spitzer,  what  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you 
anyway  ?  " 

Spitzer  wriggled  like  a  worm  on  a  hook,  and  his  face 


76       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

went  the  color  of  a  semaphore  arm — a  deep  red  one. 
Spitzer  was  suffering  acutely. 

"  Well,  well/'  prodded  Regan.  "  Release  the  air ! 
Take  the  brakes  off!" 

"  I'm,"  began  Spitzer  shamefacedly,  "  I'm "  He 

gulped  down  his  Adam's  apple  hard,  twice,  and  then 
it  came  away  with  a  rush :  "  I'm  going  to  get  married 
to  Merla  Swenson." 

Regan's  jaw  sagged  like  the  broken  limb  of  a  tree, 
and  his  eyes  fairly  popped  out  and  hung  down  over  the 
roll  of  his  cheeks.  Then  gradually,  very  gradually,  he 
began  to  double  up  and  unhandsome  contortions 
afflicted  his  facial  muscles.  Spitzer!  Spitzer  was 
enough !  But  Spitzer  and  Merla  Swenson !  Six-foot- 
heavy-boned-long-armed  Swedish-maiden  Merla!  Oh, 
contrariety,  variety,  perversity  of  lif e ! 

"  Haw !  "  he  roared  suddenly.  "  Haw,  haw !  Haw, 
haw,  haw !  "  And  again — only  louder.  The  turner 
and  a  helper  or  two  poked  their  noses  out  of  the  round- 
house doors  to  get  a  line  on  the  disturbance. 

Can  a  stone  float?  Can  a  feather  sink?  Astonish- 
ing, bewildering,  dumfounding,  impossible,  oh,  yes; 
but  it  was  also  very  funny.  It  was  the  funniest  thing 
that  Regan  had  ever  heard  in  his  life. 

"Haw,  haw!"  he  screamed.  "Ho,  ho!  Haw, 
haw !  " 

His  paunch  shook  like  jelly,  and  he  held  both  hands 
to  his  sides  to  ease  the  pain.  He  straightened  up  pre- 
paratory to  going  off  into  another  burst  of  guffaws, 
and  then,  with  his  mouth  already  opened  to  begin,  he 
stopped  as  though  he  had  been  stunned.  Spitzer  was 


SPITZER  77 

still  standing  before  him,  and  Spitzer's  head  was  turned 
away,  but  Regan  caught  it,  caught  the  two  big  tears 
that  rolled  slowly  down  the  grimy  cheeks.  And  in 
that  moment  he  realized  what  neither  he  nor  any  other 
man  on  the  Hill  Division  had  ever  realized  before — 
that  Spitzer,  too,  was  human. 

Regan  coughed,  choked,  and  cleared  his  throat. 
Here  was  Spitzer  in  a  new  light,  but  the  Spitzer  of 
years  was  not  so  readily  to  be  consigned  to  the  back- 
ground of  oblivion.  Spitzer  in  a  cab  was  as  much 
an  anomaly  as  ever,  conjugal  aspirations  to  the  con- 
trary. 

"Firing?"  said  he,  with  grave  consideration  that 
he  meant,  by  contrast,  should  serve  as  palliation  for  the 
sting  of  his  mirth.  "Firing?  I'm  afraid  not.  You're 
not  fit  for  it.  You're  not  big  enough." 

Spitzer  dashed  his  hands  across  his  eyes. 

"  I  can  fire,"  he  announced  with  a  surprising  show 
of  spirit,  "  an'  I  got  to.  There's  smaller  ones  than  me 
doing  it." 

(t  What  do  you  mean  by  '  got  to  '  ?  "  demanded  the 
master  mechanic. 

Spitzer  shifted  uneasily  and  kicked  at  the  ground. 

"  Merla  an'  me's  been  making  up  for  quite  a  while," 
he  stammered :  "  but  she  wouldn't  say  nothing  one 
way  or  the  other  till  I  got  a  raise." 

"  Well,  you  got  it,"  said  Regan. 

Spitzer  nodded  miserably. 

;<  Yes,  an'  now  she  says  'tain't  enough  to  get  married 
on,  an' — an'  we'll  have  to  wait  till  I  get  firing." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  murmured  Regan,  and  he  mopped 


78       ON   THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

his  brow  in  deep  perplexity.  The  destiny  of  mortals 
was  in  his  hands — but  so  was  the  motive  power  de- 
partment of  the  Hill  Division.  He  could  no  more  see 
Spitzer  in  a  cab  than  he  could  see  the  time-honored 
camel  passing  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.  Then  in- 
spiration came  to  him. 

"  Look  here,  Spitzer,"  said  he,  soothingly.  "  There 
ain't  any  use  talking  about  firing,  and  I  ain't  going  to 
let  you  build  up  any  false  hopes.  But  I'll  tell  you  what, 
you  don't  need  to  feel  glum  about  it.  She  loves  you, 
don't  she?" 

Spitzer's  lips  moved. 

"  H'm  ?  "  inquired  Regan  solicitously,  bending  for- 
ward. 

"  Yes ;  she  says  she  does,"  repeated  Spitzer  in  thin 
tones. 

''  Yes ;  well  then,  when  you  know  women,  and  as 
much  about  'em  as  I  do,  you'll  know  that  nothing  else 
counts — nothing  but  the  love,  I  mean.  It's  their 
nature,  and  they're  all  alike.  That's  the  way  it  is  with 
all  of  'em " — Regan  waved  his  hand  expansively. 
"  It'll  be  all  right.  You'll  see.  She  won't  hold  out  on 
that  line." 

Some  men  profit  much  by  little  experience,  others 
profit  little  by  much  experience.  Spitzer,  possibly,  had 
had  little,  very  little,  but  the  dejected  droop  of  his 
shoulders,  as  he  started  back  for  the  roundhouse,  inti- 
mated that  in  the  matter  of  knowledge  as  applied  to  the 
eternal  feminine  he  was  perhaps,  in  so  far  as  it  lay  be- 
tween himself  and  the  master  mechanic,  the  better 
qualified  of  the  two  to  speak.  And  that,  certainly, 


SPITZER  79 

when  concretely  applied,  which  is  to  say  applied  to 
Merla  Swenson. 

Regan  couldn't  have  kept  the  story  back  to  save  his 
life,  and  it  didn't  take  long  for  the  division  to  get  it. 
They  all  got  it — train  crews  and  engine  crews  on  way 
freights,  stray  freights,  locals,  extras  and  regulars,  the 
staff,  the  shop  hands,  the  track-walkers  and  the  section 
gangs  down  to  the  last  car-tink.  At  first  the  division 
looked  incredulous,  then  it  grinned,  and  then  it  howled, 
and  its  howl  was  the  one  word  "  Spitzer ! "  with 
seventeen  exclamation  points  after  it  to  make  the 
tempo  and  rhythm  hang  out  in  a  manner  befitting  and 
commensurate  with  the  occasion. 

It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good.  Dutchy 
Damrosch  did  the  business  of  his  life — he  did  more 
business  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  doing  in  his 
wildest  flights  of  imagination,  for  Dutchy  had  the  lunch 
counter  rights  at  Big  Cloud.  What's  that  got  to  do 
with  Spitzer  and  his  marital  ambition  ?  Well,  a  whole 
lot !  Merla  Swenson  was  second  girl  in  Dutchy's 
establishment,  and  Merla  was  the  "  fee-ancy "  of 
Spitzer — which  was  a  rotten  bad  pun  of  Spider  Kelly's, 
the  conductor,  and  due  more  to  the  brogue-like  twist  of 
his  tongue  than  to  any  malice  aforethought. 

To  see  any  girl  that  was  in  love  with  Spitzer  was 
worth  the  price  of  coffee  and  sinkers  any  old  time. 
The  lunch  counter  took  on  the  air  of  a  dime  museum, 
and  the  visitors  questioned  Merla  anxiously,  a  little 
suspicious  that  after  all  there  might  be  a  nigger  in  the 
woodpile  somewhere  in  the  shape  of  a  "  frame-up  " 
with  the  hoax  on  themselves. 


8o       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

Merla  settled  all  doubts  on  that  score.  Unruffled, 
calmly,  stoically,  dispassionately  she  answered  the  same 
question  fifty  times  a  day,  and  each  time  in  the  same 
way. 

"  Yah,  I  ban  love  Spitzer,"  was  her  infallible  reply, 
in  a  tone  that  made  the  bare  possibility  that  she  could 
have  done  anything  else  seem  the  very  acme  of 
absurdity.  Merla's  inflexion  struck  deep  at  the  root 
of  things  inevitable. 

After  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  A  few, 
very  few,  and  as  the  days  went  by  their  numbers 
thinned  with  amazing  rapidity,  had  the  temerity  to 
snicker  audibly.  They  only  did  it  once,  as  with  arms 
akimbo  and  hands  on  hips  Merla  advanced  to  the  edge 
of  the  counter  with  a  look  in  her  steadfast,  blue  eyes, 
that  was  far  from  inviting,  and  inquired : 

"  Him  ban  goot  mans,  I  tank  ?  " 

It  was  put  in  the  form  of  a  question,  it  is  true,  but 
the  "  put "  was  of  such  cold  uncompromise  that  the 
result  was  always  the  same.  The  offender  hastily 
buried  his  nose  in  his  coffee-cup,  dug  for  a  dime  to 
square  his  account — with  Dutchy — and  made  for  the 
platform. 

This  was  all  very  well,  but  unless  Regan  died  and 
some  one  with  a  little  less — or  a  little  more,  depending 
on  how  you  look  at  it — imagination  took  his  place, 
Spitzer's  chances  of  getting  into  a  cab  were  as  good 
as  ever,  which  is  to  say  that  they  were  about  as  good 
as  the  goodness  of  a  plugged  nickel.  And  the  trouble 
was  that,  as  far  as  Spitzer  could  see,  the  master 
mechanic  wasn't  sprouting  out  with  any  visible  signs 


SPITZER  81 

of  premature  decay.  Furthermore,  as  he  had  sus- 
picioned  and  now  discovered,  Regan  wasn't  the  last 
word  on  women;  not,  perhaps,  that  Merla  put  firing 
before  love,  only  she  was  uncommonly  strong  on  firing. 
Spitzer  was  unhappy. 

All  things  come  to  those  who  wait,  they  say.  So 
they  do,  perhaps ;  but  the  way  of  their  coming  is  some- 
times not  to  be  understood  or  fathomed.  The  story 
of  a  man  who  fell  from  the  eighteenth  story  window 
of  an  office  building,  and,  incidentally,  broke  his  neck 
has  no  place  here  except  in  a  general  way.  A  friend 
who  took  a  passing  interest  in  the  event  was  curious 
enough  to  investigate  the  cause,  and  he  traced  it  back 
step  by  step,  logically,  surely,  inevitably,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  refutation,  to  the  fact  that  the  second 
hook  from  the  top  on  the  back  of  the  man's  wife's 
dress — not  the  man's  dress,  the  dress  of  the  man's  wife 
— was  missing  on  the  morning  of  the  day  of  his  un- 
timely decease.  The  man — not  the  man's  friend — was 
an  inventor.  But  no  matter.  It  just  shows.  Regan 
being  still  alive,  the  chances  are  better  than  a  thousand 
to  one  that  Spitzer  would  have  known  a  cold  and  for- 
lorn old  age,  as  Robert  Louis  puts  it,  and  Merla  would 
never  have  had  a  second  edition  of  herself  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  a  few  measly,  unripe  crab-apples.  What? 
Yes,  that's  it — crab-apples.  That's  the  way  Spitzer 
got  where  he  is  to-day — just  crab-apples.  Funny  how 
things  happen  sometimes  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
isn't  it  ?  Spitzer  and  the  man  who  broke  his  neck  aren't 
the  only  ones  who've  had  their  ups  and  downs  that  way, 
not  by  several.  There  isn't  any  moral  to  this  except 


82       ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

that  here  and  there  you'll  find  a  man  who  isn't  as. 
modest  about  his  own  ability  as  he  ought  to  be ! 

Spitzer's  nocturnal  habits,  that  were  a  matter  of  so 
much  unconcern  and  of  which  the  railroad  crowd  at 
Big  Cloud  were  so  densely  in  ignorance,  have  a  part 
in  this.  The  truth  is  that  between  the  lunch-counter 
and  the  station  is  the  baggage  and  freight-shed,  and 
behind  the  freight-shed  it  is  very  dark;  and  also,  not 
less  pertinent,  is  the  fact  that  Merla  was  possessed  of 
no  other  quarters  than  those  shared  by  her  sister-in- 
arms in  Dutchy's  employ — which  were  neither  propi- 
tious nor  commodious.  Hence — but  the  connection  is 
obvious. 

On  Merla's  night  off  at  eight  o'clock,  Spitzer 
sneaked  down  through  the  fields  and  across  the  plat- 
form, weather  permitting,  and  on  those  nights  Merla 
donned  her  bonnet  "  for  a  walk  " — at  the  same  hour. 
When  the  station-clock  struck  ten  and,  coincident- 
ally,  Number  One's  mellow  chime  sounded  down  the 
gorge,  Merla  retraced  her  steps  to  the  upstairs  rear  of 
the  lunch-counter,  and  Spitzer  retraced  his  across  the 
platform  to  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the  town  and 
his  boarding-house;  only,  of  late,  Spitzer  had  taken 
to  lingering  on  the  platform  way  up  at  the  far  end 
where  it  was  also  very  dark  and  equally  as  deserted. 

Here  he  would  gaze  wistfully  at  the  big  mogul  with 
valves  popping  and  the  steam  drumming  at  her  gauges, 
as  she  waited  on  the  siding  just  in  front  of  him — 'Big 
Cloud  being  a  divisional  point  where  the  engines  were 
changed — to  back  down  onto  Number  One  for  the  first 
stretch  of  the  mountain  run — Burke's  run  with  503, 


SPITZER  83 

and  big  Jim  MacAloon  looking  after  the  shovel  end 
of  it. 

There  wasn't  anything  novel  in  the  sight,  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  strike  Spitzer  as  monotonous  although, 
when  it  was  all  over  and  he  watched  the  vanishing 
tail  lights,  he  always  sighed.  It  was  just  the  same 
performance  each  time.  Ten  minutes  or  so  before 
Number  One,  westbound,  was  due,  MacAloon  would 
run  503  out  of  the  roundhouse,  over  the  turntable, 
up  the  line,  and  back  onto  the  siding.  Then  Burke 
would  appear  on  the  scene,  light  a  torch,  and  poke 
around  with  a  long-spouted  oil  can. 

Spitzer  would  usually  reach  his  position  up  the  plat- 
form in  time  to  see  the  engineer's  final  jab  with  the 
torch  between  the  drivers  or  into  the  link-motion  be- 
fore swinging  himself  through  the  gangway  into  the 
cab,  as  the  Limited  with  snapping  trucks  and  screech- 
ing brake-shoes  rolled  into  the  station;  but  one  night 
it  fell  out  a  little  differently.  The  station  clock  had 
struck  ten,  Merla  had  hastened  to  her  domicile,  and 
Spitzer  to  the  far  end  of  the  platform  as  usual,  but 
Number  One  was  late. 

Suddenly  Spitzer  jumped  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
shoot  into  his  mouth.  There  was  a  wild,  piercing 
scream  of  agony.  It  came  again.  The  blood  left 
Spitzer's  cheeks.  He  saw  Burke  fly  around  the  end 
of  the  pilot,  the  torch  dancing  in  his  hand,  and  make 
for  the  cab.  Spitzer  involuntarily  leaped  from  the 
platform  to  the  track  and  ran  in  the  same  direction, 
then  the  safety-valve  popped  with  a  terrific  roar, 
drowning  out  all  other  sounds.  He  clambered  cau- 


84       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

tiously  into  the  cab.  On  the  floor  MacAloon  was 
going  through  a  performance  that  would  have  beg- 
gared the  efforts  of  a  writhing  python,  and  the  while 
he  groaned  and  yelled. 

As  Spitzer  watched,  Burke,  who  was  bending  over 
MacAloon  with  an  anxious  face,  suddenly  reached 
forward  and  picked  up  a  little  round  object  that  rolled 
from  the  pocket  of  the  fireman's  jumper,  then  another 
and  another.  Spitzer  instinctively  craned  forward, 
and  in  so  doing  attracted  Burke's  notice  for  the  first 
time.  Burke's  look  of  anxiety  gave  way  to  a  grin 
and  he  held  out  the  objects  to  Spitzer,  just  as  if  it 
wasn't  Spitzer  at  all  but  an  ordinary  man — humor, 
like  death,  is  a  great  leveler,  but  no  matter,  let  that 
go.  Burke  held  them  out  to  Spitzer,  Spitzer  took 
them,  and  even  Spitzer  grinned.  It  didn't  need  any 
doctor  to  diagnose  MacAloon's  complaint — and  the 
complaint  wasn't  poetic!  Cramps,  old-fashioned,  un- 
adulterated cramps — just  plain  cramps  and  green  crab- 
apples  !  Some  things  lay  a  man  out  worse  perhaps — 
but  there  aren't  many. 

Burke's  grin  didn't  last  long,  for  at  that  moment 
came  Number  One's  long,  clear  siren  note,  and  back 
over  the  tender  a  streak  of  light  shot  out  in  a  wide 
circle  from  around  a  butte  and  then  danced  along  the 
rails  and  began  to  light  up  the  platform,  as  the  Limited 
thundered,  five  minutes  late,  into  the  straight  stretch. 

"  Holy  fishplates !  "  yelled  Burke.  "  I've  got  to  get 
a  man  to  fire.  Spitzer,  you  run  like  hell  to  the  round- 
house and " 

Burke  stopped.     Spitzer  stopped  him.     There  are 


SPITZER  85 

moments  in  everybody's  life  when  they  rise  above 
themselves,  above  habit,  above  environment,  above 
everything,  if  even  for  only  a  brief  instant.  A  chance 
like  this  would  never  come  again.  If  he  could  fire  one 
trip  maybe  Regan  would  change  his  mind.  Spitzer 
grasped  at  it  frantically,  despairingly. 

"  Burke,  I  can  fire,"  he  fairly  screamed.  "  Give  me 
a  chance,  Burke.  I'll  never  get  one  if  you  don't." 

Burke  gasped  for  a  moment  like  a  man  with  his 
breath  knocked  out  of  him,  then  something  like  a  dry 
chuckle  sounded  in  his  throat.  No  one  knows  but 
Burke  what  decided  him.  It  might  have  been  either 
of  two  things,  or  a  combination  of  them  both — 
Spitzer's  pleading  face,  or  the  desire  to  take  a  rise 
out  of  Regan — Burke  and  Regan  not  having  been  on 
the  best  of  terms  since  the  last  general  elections.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  Burke  pointed  at  the  squirming  fireman. 

"  Take  his  feet,"  he  grunted. 

Together  they  lifted  and  dragged  the  stricken  Mac- 
Aloon  out  of  the  cab  and  to  the  ground.  1 108,  pulling 
Number  One,  had  come  to  a  stop  abreast  of  them  by 
now,  and  Burke  shouted  at  the  engine  crew. 

"  Here !  "  he  bawled.     "  Lend  a  hand !  " 

And  as  both  men  stuck  their  heads  out  of  the 
gangway,  he  and  Spitzer  boosted  the  fireman  up  to 
them. 

"  Got  cramps,"  explained  Burke  tersely.  "  You'll 
be  able  to  fix  him  up  in  the  roundhouse.  Five  minutes 
late,  h'm?  Well,  hurry,  you're  clear.  There's  your 
*  go-ahead.'  Pull  out  and  let  me  get  hold." 

Burke  turned  to  Spitzer,  as  1108  slipped  away  from 


86       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

the  baggage-car  and  moved  up  the  track,  and  pointed 
to  the  gangway  of  his  own  engine. 

"  Get  in,"  he  said  grimly.  "  You'll  get  a  chance  to 
fire,  and,  take  it  from  me,  you'll  never  get  a  chance 
to  do  that  or  anything  else  again  this  side  of  the  happy 
hunting-grounds,  my  bucko,  if  you  throw  me  down." 

And  while  Regan  quarreled  amiably  over  a  game 
of  pedro  upstairs  in  the  station  with  Carleton,  503, 
with  Spitzer,  touzled-haired,  mild-eyed,  heart-beating- 
like-a-trip-hammer  Spitzer,  in  the  cab,  backed  down 
on  the  Imperial  Limited  and  coupled  on  for  the  moun- 
tain run.  There  was  a  quick  testing  of  the  "  air,"  a 
hurried  running  up  and  down  the  platform,  and  then 
Burke,  leaning  from  the  window  with  his  arms 
stretched  out  inside  the  cab  and  fingers  on  the  throttle, 
opened  a  notch,  and  the  platform  began  to  slide  past 
them. 

Spitzer  wrinkled  his  face  and  stared  at  the  gauge 
needle — two  hundred  and  ten  pounds,  all  the  way,  all 
the  time — two  hundred  and  ten  pounds.  It  was  up  to 
him.  With  a  jerk  of  the  chain,  he  swung  the  furnace 
door  wide  and  a  shovelful  of  coal  shot,  neatly  scat- 
tered, over  the  grate. 

There  is  art  in  all  things;  there  is  the  quintessence 
of  art  in  the  prosaic  and  laborious  task  of  firing  an 
engine.  Spitzer  was  not  without  art,  for  in  a  way  he 
had  had  years  of  experience ;  but  banking  a  fire  in  the 
roundhouse,  and  nursing  a  roaring  pit  of  flame  to  its 
highest  degree  of  efficiency  in  a  swaying,  lurching  cab, 
are  two  different  and  distinct  operations  that  are  in 
no  way  to  be  confounded.  503  began  to  lurch  and 


SPITZER  87 

sway.  Notch  by  notch  Burke  was  opening  her  out,  and 
the  bark  of  her  exhaust  was  coming  like  the  quick 
crackle  of  a  gatling.  Five  minutes  late  in  the  moun- 
tains on  a  time  schedule  already  marked  up  to  a  dizzy 
height  that  called  for  more  chances  than  the  passengers 
paid  for  is — well,  it's  five  minutes,  just  five  minutes, 
that's  all.  Some  men  would  have  left  it  for  the  Pacific 
Division  crowd  the  next  day  on  a  level  track  and  a 
straight  sweep — but  not  Burke. 

Spitzer's  initiation  was  in  ample  form  and  he  got 
the  full  benefit  of  all  the  rites  and  ceremonies  with 
every  detail  of  the  ritual  worked  in — and  no  favors 
shown.  So  far  all  was  well,  the  rough  country  was 
all  in  front  of  the  pilot,  and  Spitzer  was  all  business. 
His  pulse  was  beating  in  tune  to  only  one  thing — the 
dancing  needle  on  the  gauge.  Again  he  swung  the 
door  open,  and  the  red  flare  lighted  up  the  heavens 
and  played  on  features  that  Regan  would  never  have 
known  for  Spitzer's — they  were  set,  grim  and  deter- 
mined, covered  with  little  sweat  beads  that  glistened 
like  diamonds.  The  singing  sweep  of  the  wind  was 
in  his  ears  as  he  poised  his  shovel.  There  was  a  sick- 
ening slur.  503  shot  round  a  tangent — and  the  shovel- 
ful of  coal  shot  like  bullets  all  over  the  cab,  and,  in- 
cluding Burke,  hit  about  everything  in  sight  but  the 
objective  point  aimed  at.  Simultaneously,  Spitzer 
promptly  performed  a  gyration  that  resembled  some- 
thing like  a  back  hand-spring  and  landed  well  up  on 
the  tender,  to  roll  back  to  the  floor  of  the  cab  again 
with  an  accompanying  avalanche  of  coal. 

He  picked  himself  up  and  glanced  apprehensively  at 


88       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

the  engineer.  There  was  not  a  scowl,  not  even  a  grin 
on  Burke's  face,  just  an  encouraging  flirt  of  the  hand 
— but  the  flirt  was  momentous.  Wise  and  full  of  guile 
was  Burke,  for  with  that  little  act  Spitzer,  biblically 
speaking,  girded  up  his  loins  and  got  his  second  wind. 

They  were  well  into  the  foothills  now,  and  the  right 
of  way  was  an  amazing  wonder.  Diving,  twisting, 
curving,  it  circled  and  bored  and  trestled  its  way,  and 
buttes,  canons,  gorges  and  coulees  roared  past  like 
flights  of  fancy. 

The  speed  was  terrific.  To  Spitzer  it  was  all  a  wild, 
mad  medley  of  things  he  had  never  known  before,  of 
things  that  had  neither  beginning  nor  end.  The  giddy 
slew  as  the  big  mountain  racer  hit  the  curves,  the 
crunching  grind  of  the  flanges  as  for  an  instant  she 
lifted  from  her  wheel-base,  the  pitch,  the  roll,  the 
staggering  reel,  the  gasp  for  breath,  the  beat  of  the 
trucks,  the  whir  of  the  racing  drivers,  the  rush  of  the 
wind,  the  echoing  thunder  of  the  flying  coaches  behind 
— it  was  all  there,  all  separate,  all  welded  into  one,  a 
creation,  new,  vernal,  life,  the  life  of  the  rail,  that  beat 
at  his  eardrums  and  quickened  the  pounding  throb  of 
his  heart. 

At  first,  from  time  to  time,  Burke  leaned  over  his 
levers  to  glance  at  the  pressure  gauge,  but  after  a  bit 
he  crouched  a  little  further  forward  in  his  seat  and  his 
eyes  held  on  the  track  ahead  where  the  beam  of  the 
electric  headlight  flooded  the  glittering  ribbons  of 
steel.  He  was  getting  what  MacAloon  or  no  other 
man  had  ever  given  him  before — two  hundred  and 
ten  pounds  all  the  way.  SPITZER  was  firing  Num- 


SPITZER  89 

her  One,  the  Imperial  Limited,  westbound,  on  the 
mountain  run,  three  minutes  late ! 

The  sweat  was  rolling  in  streams  from  the  little 
fellow  now,  and  he  clung  in  the  gangway  for  a  mo- 
ment's breathing  spell,  leaning  out,  staring  ahead  at  a 
few  shining  lights  in  the  distance.  Came  the  hoarse 
scream  of  the  whistle,  the  clattering  crash  as  they 
shattered  the  yard  switches,  a  blurred  vision  of  dark 
outlines  dotted  with  tiny  scintillating  points,  and 
station,  yard,  lights,  switches  and  all  were  behind  him. 

Spitzer  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  forehead,  and 
turned  again  to  his  work  as  they  thundered  over  a 
long  steel  trestle — Thief  Creek.  Spitzer  knew  the 
road  well  enough  at  second  hand,  if  not  from  personal 
experience.  Just  ahead  was  The  Pass — Sucker  Pass — 
straight  enough  for  its  quarter-mile  stretch,  but  where 
the  rock  walls  rose  up  on  either  side  so  close  as  to 
almost  scratch  the  paint  off  the  rolling  stock.  Eased 
for  a  moment  in  scant  deference  to  switches  and 
trestle  just  passed,  Spitzer  felt  the  forward  leap  of  the 
racer  as  Burke  threw  her  wide  open  again.  He  bent 
for  his  shovel — and  then,  quick  as  the  winking  of  an 
eye,  sudden  as  doom,  came  a  tearing,  rending  crash, 
a  scream  from  Burke,  and  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
cab  seemed  literally  torn  in  two. 

A  flying  piece  of  woodwork  that  struck  him  across 
the  eyes,  a  terrific  jolt  as  the  engine  lifted  and  fell 
back,  sent  Spitzer  headlong  to  the  floor  of  the  cab. 
Dazed,  half  mad  with  the  pain,  the  blood  streaming 
from  his  forehead,  he  staggered  to  his  feet.  Burke 
lay  coiled  in  an  inert  heap  just  in  front  of  him  by  the 


90       ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

furnace  door.  A  whizzing  piece  of  steel  rose  up, 
crunched,  slithered,  gashed  a  track  of  ruin  for  itself, 
and  was  gone.  It  had  missed  Burke  only  by  a  hair's- 
breadth — next  time  there  might  not  be  even  that  limit 
of  safety.  With  a  cry,  Spitzer  leaped  forward  and 
dragged  the  unconscious  engineer  across  the  cab. 
Again  the  jolt,  the  slur,  the  stagger,  the  desperate 
wrench.  It  seemed  like  years,  like  eternity  to  Spitzer. 
He  was  living  a  lifetime  in  the  passing  of  a  second- 
it  had  been  no  more  than  that,  no  more  than  two  or 
three  at  most. 

There  are  some  things  worse,  much  worse,  in  rail- 
roading than  a  broken  crank-pin  and  a  rod  amuck, 
but  not  when  it  comes  in  The  Pass,  where  derail- 
ment at  their  racing  speed  spelt  death,  quick  and 
sudden.  There  was  just  one  chance  for  the  trailing 
string  of  coaches,  just  one  for  every  last  soul  aboard — 
Spitzer.  But  between  Spitzer  and  the  throttle  and  the 
air-latch  was  a  thing  of  steel  that  rose  and  fell,  now 
swinging  a  splintering,  murderous  arc  through  the 
shattered  side  of  the  cab,  now  grinding  into  the  ties 
and  roadbed,  threatening  with  /every  revolution  to 
pitch  503  and  the  train  behind  her  headlong  from  the 
rails  to  crumple  like  flimsy  egg-shells  against  the 
narrow  rocky  walls  that  lined  The  Pass.  Just  one 
chance  for  the  train  crew  and  passengers — just  one  in 
a  thousand  for  Spiftzer.  And  little  five- foot-five 
Spitzer,  diffident,  retiring,  self -effaced,  unobtrusive 
Spitzer,  with  a  dry,  choking  sob  in  his  throat,  flung 
himself  forward  to  stop  the  train.  His  hands  clutched 
desperately  at  the  levers,  there  was  a  hiss,  the  vicious 


SPITZER  91 

bite  of  the  brake-shoes,  then  a  blinding  light  before 
his  eyes  as  the  rod  caught  him  and  he  pitched,  sense- 
less, half  out  through  the  front  window  of  the  cab, 
head  down  on  the  running-board. 

The  last  word  is  a  woman's — it  is  her  inalienable 
right.  Said  Merla  to  Regan  with  a  world  of  sugges- 
tion in  the  cadence  of  her  voice,  when  Spitzer  was 
getting  well  enough  to  think  about  going  to  work 
again : 

"  I  ban  love  Spitzer." 

"  Well,"  said  Regan,  squinting  at  her  round,  stead- 
fast, blue  eyes,  "  there  ain't  anything  I  know  of  to 
keep  you  waiting.  He  can  name  any  run  he  wants. 
And  then,  the  wonder  of  it  being  still  heavy  upon  him, 
he  exclaimed  with  the  air  of  one  invoking  the  uni- 
verse :  "  Now,  wouldn't  that  get  you !  What  do  you 
think,  h'm?" 

All  English  to  Merla  was  literal. 

"  Him  ban  goot  mans,  I  tank,"  she  said. 


V 

SHANLEY'S    LUCK 

GENERALLY  speaking,  Carleton,  the  super,  was  a 
pretty  good  judge  of  human  nature,  and  he  wasn't  in 
the  habit  of  making  many  breaks  when  it  came  to 
sizing  up  a  man — not  many.  He  did  sometimes,  but 
not  often.  However 

Shanley  came  out  from  the  East,  third  class,  colonist 
coach,  billed  through  to  Bubble  Creek,  B.  C.  Not  that 
Shanley  had  any  relatives  or  friends  there,  nor,  for 
that  matter,  any  particular  reason  for  wanting  to  go 
there — it  was  simply  a  question  of  how  far  his  money 
would  go  in  yards  of  pink-colored  paper,  about  two 
and  one-half  inches  wide,  stamped,  printed,  counter- 
signed, and  signed  again  to  obviate  any  possible  mis- 
understanding that  might  arise  touching  the  company's 
liability  for  baggage,  the  act  of  God,  dangers  foreseen 
and  unforeseen,  personal  effects  or  resultant  personal 
defects  whether  due  to  negligence  or  not — it  was  all 
one.  The  colonist  ticket  was  a  bill  of  lading,  and  the 
"  goods  "  went  through  "  O.  R.,"  owner's  risk. 

This  possibly  may  not  be  strictly  legal,  but  it  is 
strictly  safe — for  the  company.  Furthermore,  the 
directors  didn't  have  to  sit  up  very  late  at  night  to 
figure  out  that  if  they  got  the  colonists'  money  first 
there  would  be  none  left  for  legal  advice  in  case  of 

92 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  93 

eventualities,  and  that's  the  way  it  was  with  about  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every  thousand  colo- 
nists. The  company,  of  course,  did  take  some  risk — 
they  took  a  chance  on  the  one-thousandth  man.  The 
company  had  sporting  blood. 

If  Shanley  had  only  known  what  was  going  to 
happen,  he  could  have  saved  some  of  his  money  on 
that  ticket.  As  it  stands  now,  he  has  still  got  trans- 
portation coming  to  him  from  Little  Dance  on  the 
Hill  Division  to  Bubble  Creek,  B.  C.  That  may 
be  an  asset,  or  it  may  not — Shanley  never  asked 
for  it. 

Third  class,  colonist,  no  stop  over  allowed,  red- 
haired,  freckle-faced,  an  uptilt  to  the  nose,  a  jaw  as 
square  as  the  side  of  a  house,  shoulders  like  a  bull's, 
and  a  fist  that  would  fell  an  ox — that  was  Shanley. 
That  was  Shanley  until  the  sprung  rail  that  ditched 
the  train  at  Little  Dance  caused  him  the  loss  of  two 
things — his  erstwhile  status  in  the  general  passenger 
agent's  department,  and  a  well-beloved  and  reeking 
brier. 

Both  were  lost  forever — his  status  partly  on  account 
of  the  reasons  before  mentioned,  and  partly  because 
Shanley  wasn't  particularly  interested  in  Bubble  Creek ; 
his  brier  because  it  became  a  part,  an  integral  part,  of 
that  memorable  wreck,  as  Shanley,  who  was  peacefully 
smoking  in  the  front-end  compartment  of  the  colonist 
coach  when  the  trouble  happened,  left  the  pipe  behind 
while  he  catapulted  through  the  open  door — it  was 
summer  and  sizzling  hot — and  landed,  a  very  much 
dazed,  bewildered,  but  not  otherwise  hurt  Shanley, 


94       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

halfway  up  the  embankment  on  the  off  side  of  a  scene 
of  most  amazing  disorder. 

The  potentialties  that  lie  in  a  sprung  rail  are  some- 
thing to  marvel  at.  Up  ahead,  the  engine  had  promptly 
turned  turtle,  and,  as  promptly  giving  vent  to  its  dis- 
pleasure at  the  indignity  heaped  upon  it,  had  incased 
itself  in  an  angry,  hissing  cloud  of  steam;  behind,  the 
baggage  and  mail  cars  seemed  to  have  vied  with  each 
other  in  affectionate  regard  for  the  tender.  Only  the 
brass-polished,  nickel-plated  Pullmans  at  the  rear  still 
held  the  rails ;  the  rest  was  just  a  crazy,  slewed-edge- 
ways,  up-canted,  toppled-over  string  of  cars,  already 
beginning  to  smoke  as  the  flames  licked  into  them. 

The  shouts  of  those  who  had  made  their  escape,  the 
screams  of  those  still  imprisoned  within  the  wreckage, 
the  sight  of  others  crawling  through  the  doors  and 
windows  brought  Shanley  back  to  his  senses.  He  rose 
to  his  feet,  blinked  furiously,  as  was  his  habit  on  all 
untoward  occasions,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  down 
the  embankment  and  into  the  game — to  begin  his  career 
as  a  railroad  man.  That's  where  he  started — in  the 
wreck  at  Little  Dance. 

In  and  out  of  the  blazing  pyre,  after  a  woman  or  a 
child;  the  crash  of  his  ax  through  splintering  wood- 
work ;  the  scorching  heat ;  prying  away  some  poor  devil 
wedged  down  beneath  the  debris ;  tinkling  glass  as  the 
heat  cracked  the  windows  or  he  beat  through  a  pane 
with  his  fist — it  was  all  hazy,  all  a  dream  to  Shanley 
as,  hours  afterward,  a  grim,  gaunt  figure  with 
blackened,  bleeding  face,  his  clothes  hanging  in  ribbons, 
he  rode  into  the  Big  Cloud  yards  on  the  derrick  car. 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  95 

Some  men  would  have  hit  up  the  claim  agent  for  a 
stake;  Shanley  hit  up  Carleton  for  a  job.  But  for 
modesty's  sake,  previous  to  presenting  himself  before 
the  superintendent's  desk,  he  borrowed  from  one  of 
the  wrecking  crew  the  only  available  article  of  wearing 
apparel  at  hand — a  very  dirty  and  disreputable  pair  of 
overalls.  Dirty  and  disreputable,  but — whole. 

"  I  want  a  job,  Mr.  Carleton,"  said  he  bluntly,  when 
he  had  gained  admittance  to  the  super. 

"You  do,  eh?"  replied  Carleton,  looking  him  up 
and  down.  "  You  do,  eh  ?  You're  a  pretty  hard-look- 
ing nut,  h'm  ?  " 

Shanley  blinked,  but,  being  painfully  aware  that  he 
undoubtedly  did  look  all  if  not  more  than  that,  and 
being,  too,  not  quite  sure  what  to  make  of  the  super,  he 
contented  himself  with  the  remark: 

"  I  ain't  a  picture,  I  suppose." 

"  H'm !  "  said  Carleton.  "  Been  up  at  the  wreck,  I 
hear — what  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Shanley  shortly.  No  long  story,  no 
tale  of  what  he'd  done,  no  anything — just  "  Yes,"  and 
that  was  what  caught  Carleton. 

"  What  can  you  do?  "  demanded  the  super. 

"  Anything.     I'm  not  fussy,"  replied  Chanley. 

"  H'm !  "  said  Carleton.  "  You  don't  look  it."  And 
he  favored  Shanley  with  another  prolonged  stare. 

Shanley,  at  first  uncomfortable,  shifted  nervously 
from  one  foot  to  the  other;  then,  as  the  stare  continued, 
he  began  to  get  irritated. 

"  Look  here,"  he  flung  out  suddenly.  "  I  ain't  on 
exhibition."  I  come  for  a  job.  I  ain't  got  any  letters 


96       ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

of  recommendation  from  pastors  of  churches  in  the 
East.  I  ain't  got  anything.  My  name's  Shanley,  an'  I 
haven't  even  got  anything  to  prove  that." 

"You've  got  your  nerve,"  said  Carleton,  leaning 
back  in  his  swivel  chair  and  tucking  a  thumb  in  the 
armhole  of  his  vest.  "  Ever  worked  on  a  railroad?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Shanley,  a  little  less  assertively,  as 
he  saw  his  chances  of  a  job  vanishing  into  thin  air,  and 
already  regretting  his  hasty  speech — a  few  odd  nickels 
wasn't  a  very  big  stake  for  a  man  starting  out  in  a  new 
country,  and  that  represented  the  sum  total  of  Shan- 
ley's  worldly  wealth.  "  No,  I  never  worked  on  a  rail- 
road." 

"  H'm,"  continued  Carleton.  "  Well,  my  friend,  you 
can  report  to  the  trainmaster  in  the  morning  and  tell 
him  I  said  to  put  you  on  breaking.  Get  out !  " 

It  came  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  that  it  took 
Shanley's  breath.  Carleton's  ways  were  not  Shanley's 
ways,  or  ways  that  Shanley  by  any  peradventure  had 
been  accustomed  to.  A  moment  before  he  wouldn't 
have  exchanged  one  of  his  nickels  for  his  chances  of  a 
job,  therefore  his  reply  resolved  itself  into  a  sheepish 
grin;  moreover — but  of  this  hereafter — Shanley  back 
East  was  decidedly  more  in  the  habit  of  having  his  ap- 
plications refused  with  scant  ceremony  than  he  was  to 
receiving  favorable  consideration,  which  was  another 
reason  for  his  failure  to  rise  to  the  occasion  with  ap- 
propriate words  of  thanks. 

Incidentally,  Shanley,  like  a  select  few  of  his  fellow 
creatures,  had  his  failings;  concretely,  his  particular 
strayings  from  the  straight  and  narrow  way,  not  hav- 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  97 

ing  been  hidden  under  a  bushel,  were  responsible,  with 
the  advice  and  assistance  of  a  distant  relative  or  two — 
advice  being  always  cheap,  and  assistance,  in  this  case, 
a  marked-down  bargain — for  his  migration  to  the 
West,  as  far  West  as  the  funds  in  hand  would  take 
him — Bubble  Creek,  B.  C,  the  distant  relatives  saw 
to  that.  They  bought  the  ticket. 

Shanley,  still  smiling  sheepishly  and  in  obedience  to 
the  super's  instruction  to  "  get  out,"  was  halfway  to 
the  door  when  Carleton  halted  him. 

"Shanley!" 

"Yes,  sir?"  said  Shanley,  finding  his  voice  and 
swinging  around. 

"  Got  any  money?  " 

Shanley's  hand  mechanically  dove  through  the  over- 
alls and  rummaged  in  the  pocket  of  his  torn  and  rib- 
boned trousers — the  pocket  had  not  been  spared — the 
nickels,  every  last  one  of  them,  were  gone.  The  look 
on  his  face  evidently  needed  no  interpretation. 

Carleton  was  holding  out  two  bills — two  tens. 

"  Cleaned  out,  eh  ?  Well,  I  wouldn't  blame  any  one 
if  they  asked  you  for  your  board  bill  in  advance.  Here, 
I  guess  you'll  need  this.  You  can  pay  it  back  later  on. 
There's  a  fellow  keeps  a  clothing  store  up  the  street 
that  it  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm  to  visit — h'm  ?  " 

With  gratitude  in  his  heart  and  the  best  of  resolu- 
tions exuding  from  every  pore — he  was  always  long 
on  resolutions — Shanley  being  embarrassed,  and  there- 
fore awkward,  made  a  somewhat  ungraceful  exit  from 
the  super's  presence. 

But  neither  gratitude  nor  resolutions,  even  of  steel- 


98       ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

plate,  double-riveted  variety,  are  of  much  avail  against 
circumstances  and  conditions  over  which  one  has 
absolutely,  undeniably,  and  emphatically  no  control. 
If  Dinkelman's  clothing  emporium  had  occupied  a  site 
between  the  station  and  MacGuire's  Blazing  Star 
saloon,  instead  of  the  said  Blazing  Star  saloon  occupy- 
ing that  altogether  inappropriate  position  itself,  and  if 
Spider  Kelly,  the  conductor  of  the  wrecked  train,  had 
not  run  into  Shanley  before  he  had  fairly  got  ten  yards 
from  the  super's  office,  things  undoubtedly  would  have 
been  very  different.  Shanley  took  that  view  of  it  after- 
ward, and  certainly  he  was  justified.  It  is  on  record 
that  he  had  no  hand  in  the  laying  out  of  Big  Cloud  nor 
in  the  control  of  its  real  estate,  rentals,  or  leases. 

Railroad  men  are  by  no  stretch  of  the  imagination 
to  be  regarded  as  hero  worshipers,  but  if  a  man  does  a 
decent  thing  they  are  not  averse  to  telling  him  so. 
Shanley  had  done  several  very  decent  things  at  the 
wreck.  Spider  Kelly  invited  him  into  the  Blazing 
Star. 

Shanley  demurred.  "  I've  got  to  get  some  clothes," 
he  explained. 

"Get  'em  afterward,"  said  Kelly;  "plenty  of  time. 
Come  on;  it's  just  supper-time,  and  there'll  be  a  lot  of 
the  boys  in  there.  They'll  be  glad  to  meet  you.  If 
you're  hungry  you'll  find  the  best  free  layout  on  the 
division.  There's  nothing  small  about  MacGuire." 

Shanley  hesitated,  and,  proverbially,  was  lost. 

An  intimate  and  particular  description  of  the  events 
of  that  night  are  on  no  account  to  be  written.  They 
would  not  have  shocked,  surprised,  or  astonished  Shan- 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  99 

ley's  distant  relatives — but  everybody  is  not  a  distant 
relative.  Shanley  remembered  it  in  spots — only  in 
spots.  He  fought  and  whipped  Spider  Kelly,  who  was 
a  much  bigger  man  than  himself,  and  thereby  cemented 
an  undying  friendship;  he  partook  of  the  hospitality 
showered  upon  him  and  returned  it  with  a  lavish  hand 
— as  long  as  Carleton's  twenty  lasted;  he  made 
speeches,  many  of  them,  touching  wrecks  and  the  na- 
ture of  wrecks  and  his  own  particular  participation 
therein — which  was  seemly,  since  at  the  end,  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  slid  with  some  dignity 
under  the  table,  and,  with  the  fond  belief  that  he  was 
once  more  clutching  an  ax  and  doing  heroic  and  noble 
service,  wound  his  arms  grimly,  remorselessly,  tena- 
ciously, like  an  octopus,  around  the  table  leg — and 
slept. 

MacGuire  before  bolting  the  front  door  studied  the 
situation  carefully,  and  left  him  there — for  the  sake  of 
the  table. 

The  sunlight  next  morning  was  not  charitable  to 
Shanley.  Where  yesterday  he  had  borne  the  marks  of 
one  wreck,  he  now  bore  the  marks  of  two — his  own  on 
top  of  the  company's.  Up  the  street  Dinkelman's 
clothing  emporium  flaunted  a  canvas  sign  announcing 
unusual  bargains  in  men's  apparel.  This  seemed  to 
Shanley  an  unkindly  act  that  could  be  expressed  in  no 
better  terms  than  "  rubbing  it  in."  He  gazed  at  the 
sign  with  an  aggrieved  expression  on  his  face,  blinked 
furiously,  and  started,  with  a  step  that  lacked  some- 
thing of  assurance,  for  the  railroad  yards  and  the  train- 
master's office. 


ioo     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

He  was  by  no  means  confident  of  the  reception  that 
awaited  him.  If  there  is  one  characteristic  over  and 
above  any  other  that  is  common  to  human  nature,  it  is 
the  faculty,  though  that's  rather  an  imposing  word,  of 
worrying  like  sin  over  something  that  may  happen — 
but  never  does.  Shanley  might  just  as  well  have  saved 
himself  the  mental  worry  anent  the  trainmaster's  pos- 
sible attitude.  He  did  not  report  to  the  trainmaster 
that  morning,  never  saw  that  gentleman  until  long,  very 
long  afterward.  Instead,  he  reported  to  Carleton — at 
the  latter's  urgent  solicitation  in  the  shape  of  a  grin- 
ning call-boy,  who  intercepted  his  march  of  progress 
toward  the  station. 

"  Hi,  you,  there,  cherub  face !  "  bawled  the  urchin 
politely.  :<  The  super  wants  you — on  the  hop !  " 

Shanley  stopped  short,  and,  resorting  to  his  favorite 
habit,  blinked. 

"  Carleton.  Get  it  ?  Carleton,''  repeated  the  mes- 
senger, evidently  by  no  means  sure  that  he  was 
thoroughly  understood;  and  then,  for  a  parting  shot 
as  he  sailed  gayly  up  the  street :  "  Gee,  but  you're 
pretty !  " 

Carleton !  Shanley  had  forgotten  all  about  Carleton 
for  the  moment.  His  hand  instinctively  went  into  his 
pocket — and  then  he  groaned.  He  remembered  Carle- 
ton.  But  worst  of  all,  he  remembered  Carleton's 
twenty. 

There  were  two  courses  open  to  him.  He  could 
sneak  out  of  town  with  all  possible  modesty  and  dis- 
patch, or  he  could  face  the  music.  Not  that  Shanley 
debated  the  question — the  occasion  had  never  yet  arisen 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  101 

when  he  hadn't  faced  the  music — he  simply  experienced 
the  temptation  to  "  crawl,"  that  was  all. 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  he  ruminated  ruefully,  "  as  though 
I  was  up  against  it  for  fair.  Just  my  luck,  just  my 
blasted  luck,  always  the  same  kind  of  luck,  that's  what. 
'Tain't  my  fault  neither,  is  it?  /  ain't  responsible  for 
that  darned  wreck — if  'twasn't  for  that  I  wouldn't  be 
here.  An'  Kelly,  Spider  he  said  his  name  was,  if 
'twasn't  for  him  I  wouldn't  be  here  neither.  What 
the  blazes  did  /  have  to  do  with  it?  I  always  have 
to  stand  for  the  other  cuss.  That's  me  every  time,  I 
guess.  An'  that's  logic." 

It  was.  Neither  was  there  any  flaw  in  it  as  at  first 
sight  might  appear,  for  the  last  test  of  logic  is  its 
power  of  conviction.  Shanley,  from  being  a  man  with 
some  reasonable  cause  for  qualms  of  conscience,  be- 
came, in  his  own  mind,  one  deeply  sinned  against,  one 
injured  and  crushed  down  by  the  load  of  others  he 
was  forced  to  bear. 

He  explained  this  to  Carleton  while  the  thought  of 
his  burning  wrongs  was  still  at  white  heat,  and  before 
the  super  had  a  chance  to  get  in  a  word.  He  began 
as  he  opened  the  office  door,  continued  as  he  crossed 
the  room,  and  finished  as  he  stood  before  the  super's 
desk. 

The  scowl  that  had  settled  on  Carleton's  face,  as  he 
looked  up  at  the  other's  entrance,  gradually  gave  way 
to  a  hint  of  humor  lurking  around  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  listened 
with  an  exaggerated  air  of  profound  attention. 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  said  he,  when  Shanley  finally 


102      ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

came  to  a  breathless  halt.  "  Now  perhaps  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  a  word.  It  may  not  have  occurred  to 
you  that  I  sent  for  you  in  order  that  /  might  do  the 
talking— h'm?" 

This  really  seemed  to  require  no  answer,  so  Shanley 
made  none. 

'  Yesterday,"  went  on  Carleton,  "  you  came  to  me 
for  a  job,  and  I  gave  you  one,  didn't  I  ?  " 

'  Yes,"  admitted  Shanley,  licking  his  lips. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Carleton  mildly.  "  I  hired  you  then. 
I  fire  you  now.  Pretty  quick  work,  what?  " 

'  You're  the  doctor,"  said  Shanley  evenly  enough. 
He  had,  for  all  his  logic,  expected  no  more  nor  less — 
he  was  too  firm  a  believer  in  his  own  particular  and  ex- 
clusive brand  of  luck.  "  You're  the  doctor,"  he  re- 
peated. "  There's  a  matter  of  twenty  bucks " 

"  I  was  coming  to  that,"  interrupted  Carleton ;  "  but 
I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it.  I'll  be  honest  enough  to 
admit  that  I  hardly  expected  you  would.  A  man  who 
acts  as  you've  acted  doesn't  generally — h'm?  " 

"  I  told  you  'twasn't  my  fault,"  said  Shanley  stub- 
bornly. 

Carleton  reached  for  his  pipe,  and  struck  a  match, 
surveying  Shanley  the  while  with  a  gaze  that  was  half 
perplexed,  half  quizzical. 

"  You're  a  queer  card,"  he  remarked  at  last.  :<  Why 
don't  you  cut  out  the  booze  ?  " 

"  'Twasn't  my  fault,  I  tell  you,"  persisted  Shanley. 

"  You're  a  pretty  good  hand  with  your  fists,  what  ?  " 
said  Carleton  irrelevantly.  "  Kelly's  no  slouch  him- 
self." 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  103 

Shanley  blinked.  It  appeared  that  the  super  was  as 
intimately  posted  on  the  events  of  the  preceding 
evening  as  he  was  himself.  The  remark  suggested  an 
inspection  of  the  fists  in  question.  They  were  grimy 
and  dirty,  and  most  of  the  knuckles  were  barked; 
closed,  they  resembled  a  pair  of  miniature  battering- 
rams. 

"  Pretty  good,"  he  admitted  modestly. 

"  H'm !  About  that  twenty.  You  intend  to  pay  it 
back,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  thief,  whatever  else  I  am,"  snapped  Shan- 
ley.  "  Of  course,  I'll  pay  it  back.  You  needn't  worry." 

"When?"  insisted  Carleton  coolly. 

"  When  I  get  a  job." 

"  I'll  give  you  one,"  said  Carleton—"  Royal  "  Carle- 
ton  the  boys  called  him,  the  squarest  man  that  ever 
held  down  a  division.  "  I'll  give  you  one  where  your 
fists  will  be  kept  out  of  mischief,  and  where  you  can't 
hit  the  high  joints  quite  as  hard  as  you  did  last  night. 
But  I  want  you  to  understand  this,  Shanley,  and  under- 
stand it  good  and  plenty  and  once  for  all,  it's  your  last 
chance.  You  made  a  fool  of  yourself  last  night,  but 
you  acted  like  a  man  yesterday — that's  why  you're 
getting  a  new  deal.  You're  going  up  to  Glacier  Canon 
with  McCann  on  the  construction  work.  You  won't 
find  it  anyways  luxurious,  and  maybe  you'll  like  Mc- 
Cann and  maybe  you  won't — he's  been  squealing  for  a 
white  man  to  live  with.  You  can  help  him  boss  Italians 
at  one  seventy-five  a  day,  and  you  can  go  up  on 
Twenty-nine  this  morning,  that'll  take  care  of  your 
transportation.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 


104     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

Shanley  couldn't  say  anything.  He  looked  at  the 
super  and  blinked;  then  he  looked  at  his  fists  specula- 
tively — and  blinked. 

Carleton  was  scribbling  on  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  All  right,  h'm?  "  he  said,  looking  up  and  handing 
over  the  paper.  :t  There's  an  order  on  Dinkelman, 
only  get  some  one  else  to  show  you  the  way  this  time, 
and  take  the  other  side  of  the  street  going  up.  Under- 
stand?" 

"  Mr.  Carleton/'  Shanley  blurted  out,  "  if  ever  I  get 
full  again,  you " 

"  I  will !  "  said  Carleton  grimly.  "  I'll  fire  you  so 
hard  and  fast  you'll  be  out  of  breath  for  a  month. 
Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that.  No  man  gets 
more  than  two  chances  with  me.  The  next  time  you 
get  drunk  will  finish  your  railroad  career  for  keeps, 
I  promise  you  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Shanley  humbly ;  and  then,  after  a 
moment's  nervous  hesitation :  "  About  Kelly,  Mr. 
Carleton.  I  don't  want  to  get  him  in  bad  on  this.  You 
see,  it  was  this  way.  He  left  early — that's  what 
started  the  fight.  I  called  him  a — a — quitter — or  some- 
thing like  that." 

"  H'm,  yes ;  or  something  like  that,"  repeated  Carle- 
ton  dryly.  "  So  I  believe.  I've  had  a  talk  with  Kelly. 
You  needn't  let  the  incomprehensible  workings  of  that 
conscience  of  yours  prick  you  any  on  his  account. 
Kelly  knows  when  to  stop.  His  record  is  O.  K.  in  this 
office.  Kelly  doesn't  get  drunk.  If  he  did,  he'd  be 
fired  just  as  fast  as  you  will  be  if  it  ever  happens 
again." 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  105 

"  If  I'm  never  fired  for  anything  but  that,"  exclaimed 
Shanley  in  a  burst  of  fervent  emotion,  "  I've  got  a  job 
for  life.  I'll  prove  it  to  you,  Mr.  Carleton.  I'm  going 
to  make  good.  You  see  if  I  don't." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Carleton.  "  I  hope  you  will. 
That's  all,  Shanley.  I'll  let  McCann  know  you're 
coming." 

Shanley's  second  exit  from  the  super's  presence  was 
different  from  the  first.  He  walked  out  with  a  firm 
tread  and  squared  shoulders.  He  was  rejuvenated  and 
buoyant.  He  was  on  his  mettle — quite  another  matter, 
entirely  another  matter,  and  distinctly  apart  from  the 
paltry  consideration  of  a  mere  job.  He  had  told  Carle- 
ton  that  he  would  make  good.  Well,  he  would — and 
he  did.  Carleton  himself  said  so,  and  Carleton  wasn't 
in  the  habit  of  making  many  breaks  when  it  came  to 
sizing  up  a  man — not  many.  He  did  sometimes,  but 
not  often. 

Shanley  did  not  take  the  other  side  of  the  street  on 
the  way  to  Dinkelman's — by  no  means.  He  deliber- 
ately passed  as  close  to  the  Blazing  Star  saloon  as  he 
could,  passed  with  contemptuous  disregard,  passed 
boastfully  in  the  knowledge  of  his  own  strength.  A 
sixteen-hundred  class  engine  with  her  four  pairs  of 
forty-six-inch  drivers  can  pull  countless  cars  up  a 
mountain  grade  steep  enough  to  make  one  dizzy,  but 
Shanley  would  have  backed  himself  to  win  against 
her  in  a  tug  of  war  over  the  scant  few  inches  that 
separated  him  from  MacGuire's  dispensary  as  he 
brushed  by.  None  of  MacGuire's  for  him.  Not  at 
all.  Red-headed,  freckle-faced,  barked-knuckled,  bul- 


io6     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

warked-and-armor-cased-against-temptation  Shanley 
dealt  that  morning  with  Mr.  Dinkelman,  purveyor  of 
bargains  in  men's  apparel. 

The  dealings  were  liberal — on  the  part  of  both  men. 
On  Shanley's  part  because  he  needed  much;  on  Mr. 
Dinkelman's  part  because  it  was  Mr.  Dinkelman's 
business,  and  his  nature,  to  sell  much — if  he  could — > 
safely.  This  was  eminently  safe.  Carleton's  name  in 
the  mountains  stood  higher  than  guaranteed,  gilt- 
edged  gold  bonds  any  time. 

The  business  finally  concluded,  Shanley  boarded 
Twenty-nine,  local  freight,  west,  and  in  due  time,  well 
on  in  the  afternoon,  righteously  sober,  straight  as  a 
string,  cleaned,  groomed,  and  resplendent  in  a  new 
suit,  swung  off  from  the  caboose  at  Glacier  Canon  as 
the  train  considerately  slackened  speed  enough  to  give 
him  a  fighting  chance  for  life  and  limb. 

He  landed  safely,  however,  in  the  midst  of  a  jab- 
bering Italian  labor  gang,  who  received  his  sudden 
advent  with  patience  and  some  awe.  A  short,  squint- 
faced  man  greeted  him  with  a  grin. 

"  Me  name's  McCann,"  said  he  of  the  squint  face. 
:(  This  is  Glacier  Canon,  fwhat  yez  see  av  ut.  Them's 
the  Eyetalians.  Yon's  fwhere  I  roost  an'  by  the  same 
token,  fwhere  yez'll  roost,  too,  from  now  on.  Above 
is  the  shack  av  the  men.  Are  yez  plased  wid  yer  in- 
troduction? 'Tis  wan  hell  av  a  hole  ye've  come  to. 
Shanley's  the  name,  eh  ?  A  good  wan,  an'  I'm  proud 
to  make  the  acquaintance." 

Shanley  blinked  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
made  friends  with  his  superior,  and  blinked  again  as 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  107 

he  looked  first  one  way  and  then  another  in  an  effort 
to  follow  and  absorb  the  other's  graphic  description 
of  the  surroundings. 

The  road  foreman's  summary  was  beyond  dispute. 
Glacier  Canon  was  as  wild  a  piece  of  track  as  the  Hill 
Division  boasted,  which  was  going  some.  The  right 
of  way  hugged  the  bald  gray  rock  of  the  mountains 
that  rose  up  at  one  side  in  a  sheer  sweep,  and  the  trains 
crawled  along  for  all  the  world  like  huge  flies  at  the 
base  of  a  wall.  On  the  other  side  was  the  Glacier 
River  with  its  treacherous  sandy  bed  that  had  been  the 
subject  of  more  reports  and  engineers'  gray  hairs  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  system  put  together.  The  construc- 
tion camp  lay  just  to  the  east  of  the  Canon,  and  at  the 
foot  of  a  long,  stiff,  two-mile,  four-per-cent  grade. 
That  was  the  reason  the  camp  was  there — that  grade. 

Locking  the  stable  door  when  the  horse  is  gone  is  a 
procedure  that  is  very  old.  It  did  not  originate  with 
the  directors  of  the  Transcontinental — they  never 
claimed  it  did.  But  their  fixed  policy,  if  properly 
presented  before  a  court  of  arbitration,  would  have 
gone  a  long  way  toward  establishing  a  clear  title  to 
it.  If  they  had  built  a  switchback  at  the  foot  of  the 
grade  in  the  first  place,  Extra  Number  Eighty-three, 
when  she  lost  control  of  herself  near  the  bottom 
coming  down,  would  have  demonstrated  just  as  clearly 
the  necessity  for  one  being  there  as  she  demonstrated 
most  forcibly  what  would  happen  when  there  wasn't. 
All  of  which  is  by  way  of  saying  that  rock  or  no  rock, 
expense  or  no  expense,  the  door  was  now  to  be  locked, 
and  McCann  and  his  men  were  there  to  lock  it. 


io8     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

McCann  explained  this  to  Shanley  as  he  walked  him 
around,  up  the  track  to  the  men's  shanties,  over  the 
work,  and  back  again  down  the  track  to  inspect  the 
interior  of  the  dwelling  they  were  to  share  in  common 
— a  relic  of  deceased  Extra  Number  Eighty-three  in 
the  shape  of  a  truckless  box-car  with  dinted  and 
bulging  sides — dinted  one  side  and  bulged  the  other, 
that  is. 

"  But,"  said  Shanley,  "  I  dunno  what  a  switchback 
is." 

''  Who  expected  it  av  ye  ? "  inquired  McCann. 
"  An'  fwhat  difference  does  ut  make  ?  Carleton  sint 
word  ye  were  green.  Ye've  no  need  to  know.  So's 
ye  can  do  as  yez  are  told  an*  make  them  geesers  do  as 
they  are  told,  an'  can  play  forty- foive  at  night — that's 
the  point,  the  main  point  wid  me,  an'  it's  me  yez  av  to 
get  along  wid — 'twill  be  all  right.  Since  Meegan, 
him  that  was  helpin'  me,  tuk  sick  a  week  back,  I've 
been  alone.  Begad,  playin'  solytare  is " 

"  I  can  play  forty-five,"  said  Shanley. 

McCann's  face  brightened. 

"  The  powers  be  praised !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I'll  en- 
lighten ye,  then,  on  the  matter  av  switchbacks,  me  son, 
so  as  ye'll  have  an  intilligent  conception  av  the  work. 
A  switchback  is  a  bit  av  a  spur  track  that  sticks  out 
loike  the  quills  av  a  porkypine  at  intervuls  on  a  bad 
grade  such  as  the  wan  forninst  ye.  'Tis  run  off  the 
main  line,  d'ye  mind,  an'  up  contrariwise  to  the  dip 
av  the  grade.  Whin  a  train  comin'  down  gets  beyond 
control  an'  so  expresses  herself  by  means  av  her 
whistle,  she's  switched  off  an'  given  a  chance  to  run 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  109 

uphill  by  way  av  variety  until  she  stops.  An*  the  same 
holds  true  if  she  breaks  loose  goin'  up.  Is  ut  clear?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Shanley.    "  When  do  I  begin  work?  " 

"  In  the  mornin'.  Tis  near  six  now,  an'  the 
bhoys'll  be  quittin'  for  the  night.  Forty-foive  is  a 
grand  game.  We'll  play  ut  to-night  to  our  better  ac- 
quaintance. I  contind  'tis  the  national  game  av  the 
ould  sod." 

Whether  McCann's  contention  is  borne  out  by  fact, 
or  by  the  even  more  weighty  consideration  of  public 
opinion,  is  of  little  importance.  Shanley  played  forty- 
five  with  McCann  that  night  and  for  many  nights 
thereafter.  He  lost  a  figure  or  two  off  the  pay  check 
that  was  to  come,  but  he  won  the  golden  opinion  of  the 
little  road  boss,  which  ethically,  and  in  this  case  prac- 
tically, was  of  far  greater  value. 

"  He's  a  bright  jool  av  a  lad,"  wrote  McCann  across 
the  foot  of  a  weekly  report. 

And  Carleton,  seeing  it,  was  much  gratified,  for 
Carleton  wasn't  in  the  habit  of  making  many  breaks 
when  it  came  to  sizing  up  a  man — not  many.  He  did 
sometimes,  but  not  often.  Shanley  was  making  good. 
Carleton  was  much  gratified. 

Of  the  three  weeks  that  followed  Shanley's  advent 
to  Glacier  Canon,  this  story  has  little  to  do  in  a  de- 
tailed way;  but,  as  a  whole,  those  three  weeks  are 
pointed,  eloquent,  and  important — very  important. 

Italian  laborers  have  many  failings,  but  likewise 
they  have  many  virtues.  They  are  simple,  demonstra- 
tive, and  their  capacity  for  adoration — of  both  men 
and  things — is  very  great. 


no     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

From  Jacko,  the  water  boy,  to  Pietro  Maraschino, 
the  padrone,  they  adored  Shanley,  and  enthroned  him 
as  an  idol  in  their  hearts,  for  the  very  simple  reason 
that  Shanley,  not  being  a  professional  slave-driver  by 
trade,  established  new  and  heretofore  undreamed-of 
relations  with  them.  Shanley  was  very  green,  very 
ignorant,  very  inexperienced — he  treated  them  like 
human  beings.  That  was  the  long  and  short  of  it. 
Shanley  became  popular  beyond  the  popularity  of  any 
man,  before  or  since,  who  was  ever  called  upon  to 
handle  the  "  foreign  element  "  on  the  Hill  Division. 

And  the  work  progressed.  Day  by  day  the  cut 
bored  deeper  into  the  stubborn  mountain-side;  day  by 
day  the  Glacier  River  gurgled  peacefully  along  over  its 
treacherous  sandy  bed,  one  of  the  prettiest  scenic 
effects  on  the  system,  so  pretty  that  the  company  used 
it  in  the  magazines;  day  by  day  regulars  and  extras, 
freights  and  passengers,  east  and  west,  snorted  up  and 
down  the  grade,  the  only  visitations  from  the  outside 
world;  night  after  night  Shanley  played  forty-five 
with  McCann  in  the  smoky,  truckless  box-car. 

Also  the  camp  was  dry,  very  dry,  dryer  than  a 
sanatorium — that  is,  than  some  sanatoriums.  Carle- 
ton  had  been  quite  right.  There  was  no  opportunity 
for  Shanley  to  hit  the  high  joints  quite  as  hard  as  he 
had  that  night  in  Big  Cloud — there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity for  him  to  hit  the  high  joints  at  all.  Shanley 
had  not  seen  a  bottle  for  three  weeks.  Therefore 
Shanley  felt  virtuous,  which  was  proper. 

Some  events  follow  others  as  the  natural,  logical 
outcome  and  conclusion  of  preceding  ones;  others, 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  in 

again,  are  apparently  irrelevant,  and  the  connection  is 
not  to  be  explained  either  by  logic,  conclusion,  or 
otherwise.  Rain,  McCann's  departure  for  Big  Cloud, 
and  Pietro  Maraschino's  birthday  are  an  example  of 
this. 

When  it  settles  down  for  a  storm  in  the  mountains, 
it  is,  if  the  elements  are  really  in  earnest,  torrential, 
and  prolonged,  and  has  the  effect  of  tying  up  con- 
struction work  tighter  than  a  supreme  court  injunction 
could  come  anywhere  near  doing  it. 

McCann  had  business  in  Big  Cloud,  whether  per- 
sonal or  pertaining  to  the  company  is  of  no  conse- 
quence, and  the  day  the  storm  set  in — the  morning 
having  demonstrated  that  its  classification  was  not  to 
be  considered  as  transient — he  seized  the  opportunity 
to  flag  the  afternoon  freight  eastbound.  This  was 
natural  and  logical,  and  an  opportunity  not  to  be 
neglected. 

That  this  day,  however,  should  be  the  anniversary 
of  the  day  the  padrone's  mother  of  blessed  memory 
had  given  birth  to  Pietro  Maraschino  in  sunny  Naples 
fifty-three  years  before  is,  though  apparently  irrelevant, 
far  from  being  so ;  and  since  its  peculiar  and  coincident 
happening  cannot  be  laid  at  the  door  of  either  logical, 
natural,  scientific,  or  philosophical  conclusions,  and 
since  it  demands  an  explanation  of  some  sort,  it  must, 
perforce,  be  attributed  to  the  metaphysical — which  is  a 
name  given  to  all  things  about  which  nobody  knows 
anything. 

'  Yez  are  in  charge,"  said  McCann  grandiloquently, 
waving  his  hand  to  Shanley  as  he  swung  into  the 


H2     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

caboose.  '  Yez  are  in  charge  av  the  work,  me  son. 
See  to  ut.  I  trust  ye." 

As  the  work  at  the  moment  was  entirely  at  a  stand- 
still and  bid  fair  to  remain  so  until  McCann's  return 
on  the  morrow,  this  was  very  good  of  McCann.  But 
all  men  like  words  of  appreciation,  most  of  them 
whether  they  deserve  them  or  not,  so  Shanley  went 
back  into  the  box-car  out  of  the  rain  to  ponder  over 
the  tribute  McCann  had  paid  him,  and  to  ponder,  too, 
over  the  new  responsibility  that  had  fallen  to  his  lot. 

He  did  not  ponder  very  long;  indeed,  the  freight 
that  was  transporting  McCann  could  hardly  have  been 
out  of  sight  over  the  summit  of  the  grade,  when  a 
knock  at  the  door  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  the 
dripping  figure  of  the  padrone. 

Shanley  looked  up  anxiously. 

"  Hello,  Pietro,"  he  said  nervously,  for  the  weather 
wasn't  the  kind  that  would  bring  a  man  out  for 
nothing,  and  he  was  keenly  alive  to  that  new  respon- 
sibility. "  Hello,  Pietro,"  he  repeated.  "  Anything 
wrong?  " 

Pietro  grinned  amiably,  shook  his  head,  unbuttoned 
his  coat,  and  held  out — a  bottle. 

Shanley  stared  in  amazement,  and  then  began  to 
blink  furiously. 

"  Here !  "  said  he.     "  What's  this  ?  " 

"  Chianti,"  said  Pietro,  grinning  harder  than  ever. 

"  Key-aunty."  Shanley  screwed  up  his  face. 
"What  the  devil  is  key-aunty?" 

"  Ver'  good  wine  from  Italia,"  said  the  beaming 
padrone. 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  113' 

"  It  is,  is  it?  Well,  it's  against  the  rules,"  asserted 
Shanley  with  conviction.  ."  It's  against  the  rules. 
McCann  'u'd  skin  you  alive.  He  would.  Whefe'd 
you  get  it?  What's  up,  eh?  It's  against  the  rules. 
I'm  in  charge." 

Pietro  explained.  It  was  his  birthday.  It  was  very 
bad  weather.  For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  there 
would  be  no  work.  They  would  celebrate  the  birthday. 
Meester  McCann  had  taken  the  train.  As  for  the 
wine — Pietro  shrugged  his  shoulders — his  people 
adored  wine.  Unless  they  were  very  poor  his  people 
would  have  a  little  wine  in  their  packs,  perhaps.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  where  they  had  got  it,  but  it  was 
very  thoughtful  of  them  to  remember  his  birthday. 
Each  had  presented  him  with  a  little  wine.  This  bottle 
was  an  expression  of  their  very  great  good  estime  of 
Meester  Shanley.  Perhaps,  later,  Meester  Shanley 
would  come  himself  to  the  shack. 

"  It's  against  the  rules,"  blinked  Shanley.  "  McCann 
'u'd  skin  you  alive.  Maybe  I'll  drop  in  by  and  by. 
You  can  leave  the  bottle." 

Pietro  bobbed,  grinned  delightedly,  handed  over  the 
bottle,  and  backed  out  into  the  storm. 

Shanley,  still  blinking,  placed  the  bottle  on  the  table, 
and  gazed  at  it  thoughtfully  for  a  few  minutes — and 
his  thoughts  were  of  Carleton. 

"  If  'twere  whisky,"  said  he,  "  I'd  have  no  part  of 
it,  not  a  drop,  not  even  a  smell.  I  would  not.  I  would 

not  touch  it.  But  as  it  is "  Shanley  uncorked  the 

bottle. 

Not  at  all.    One  does  not  get  drunk  on  a  bottle  of 


114     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

Chianti  wine.  A  single  bottle  of  Chianti  wine  is  very 
little.  That  is  the  trouble — it  is  very  little.  After 
three  weeks  of  abstinence  it  is  very  little  indeed — so 
little  that  it  is  positively  tantalizing. 

The  afternoon  waned  rapidly — and  so  did  the  Chi- 
anti. Outside,  the  storm  instead  of  abating  grew 
worse — the  thunder  racketing  through  the  mountains, 
the  lightning  cutting  jagged  streaks  in  the  black  sky, 
the  rain  coming  down  in  sheets  that  set  the  culverts 
and  sluiceways  running  full.  It  was  settling  down  for 
a  bad  night  in  the  mountains,  which,  in  the  Rockies, 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  ignored. 

"  'Tis  no  wonder  McCann  found  it  lonely/'  muttered 
Shanley,  as  he  squeezed  the  last  drop  from  the  bottle. 
1  'Tis  very  lonely,  indeed  " — he  held  the  bottle  upside 
down  to  make  sure  that  it  was  thoroughly  drained — 
"most  uncommon  lonely.  It  is  that.  Maybe  those 
Eyetalians'll  be  thinkin'  I'm  stuck  up,  perhaps — which 
I  am  not.  It's  a  queer  name  the  stuff  has,  though  it's 
against  the  rules,  an'  I  can't  get  my  tongue  around  it, 
but  I've  tasted  worse.  For  the  sake  of  courtesy  I'll 
look  in  on  the  birthday  party." 

He  incased  himself  in  a  pair  of  McCann's  rubber 
boots,  put  on  McCann's  rubber  coat,  and  started  out. 

"  An'  to  think,"  said  he,  as  he  sloshed  and  buffeted 
his  way  up  the  two  hundred  yards  of  track  to  the 
construction  shanties,  "  to  think  that  Pietro  came  out 
in  cruel  bad  weather  like  this  all  for  to  present  his 
compliments  an'  ask  me  over !  'Twould  be  ungracious 
to  refuse  the  invitation ;  besides  my  presence  will  keep 
them  in  due  bounds  an'  restraint.  I've  heard  that 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  115 

Eyetalians,  being  foreigners,  do  not  practice  restraint 
— but,  being  foreigners,  'tis  not  to  be  held  against 
them.  I'm  in  charge,  an'  I'll  see  to  it." 

Ihey  greeted  him  in  the  largest  of  the  three  bunk- 
houses.  They  greeted  him  heartily,  sincerely,  uproari- 
ously, and  with  fervor.  They  were  unfeignedly  glad 
to  see  him,  and  if  he  had  not  been  by  nature  a  modest 
man  he  would  have  understood  that  his  popularity 
was  above  the  popularity  ever  before  accorded  to  a 
boss.  Likewise,  their  hospitality  was  without  stint. 
If  there  was  any  shortage  of  stock — which  is  a  matter 
decidedly  open  to  question — they  denied  themselves 
that  Shanley  might  not  feel  the  pinch.  Shanley  was 
lifted  from  the  mere  plane  of  man — he  became  a 
king. 

A  little  Chianti  is  a  little;  much  Chianti  is  to  be 
reckoned  with  and  on  no  account  to  be  despised.  Shan- 
ley not  only  became  a  king,  he  became  regally,  im- 
perially, royally,  and  majestically  drunk.  Also  there 
came  at  last  an  end  to  the  Chianti,  at  which  stage  of 
the  proceedings  Shanley,  with  extravagant  dignity  and 
appropriate  words — an  exhortation  on  restraint — 
waddled  to  the  door  to  take  his  departure. 

It  was  very  dark  outside,  very  dark,  except  when 
an  intermittent  flash  of  lightning  made  momentary 
daylight.  Pietro  Maraschino  offered  Shanley  one  of 
the  many  lanterns  that,  in  honor  of  the  festive  occa- 
sion, they  had  commandeered,  without  regard  to  color, 
from  the  tool  boxes,  and  had  strung  around  the  shack. 
Further,  he  offered  to  see  Shanley  on  his  way. 

The  offer  of  assistance  touched  Shanley — it  touched 


ii6     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

him  wrong.  It  implied  a  more  or  less  acute  condition 
of  disability,  which  he  repudiated  with  a  hurt  expres- 
sion on  his  face  and  forceful  words  on  his  tongue.  He 
refused  it;  and  being  aggrieved,  refused  also  the  lan- 
tern Pietro  held  out  to  him.  He  chose  one  for  him- 
self instead — the  one  nearest  to  his  hand.  That  this 
was  red  made  no  difference.  Blue,  white,  red,  green, 
or  purple,  it  was  all  one  to  Shanley.  His  fuddled 
brain  did  not  differentiate.  A  light  was  a  light,  that 
was  all  there  was  to  that. 

The  short  distance  from  the  shanty  door  to  the  right 
of  way  Shanley  negotiated  with  finesse  and  aplomb, 
and  then  he  started  down  the  track.  This,  however, 
was  another  matter. 

Railroad  ties,  at  best,  do  not  make  the  smoothest 
walking  in  the  world,  and  to  accomplish  the  feat  under 
some  conditions  is  decidedly  worthy  of  note.  Shan- 
ley's  performance  beggars  the  English  language — 
there  is  no  metaphor.  For  every  ten  feet  he  moved 
forward  he  covered  twenty  in  laterals,  and,  consider- 
ing that  the  laterals  were  limited  to  the  paltry  four 
feet,  eight  and  one-half  inches  that  made  the  gauge 
of  the  rails,  the  feat  was  incontestably  more  than 
worthy  of  mere  note — it  was  something  to  wonder  at. 
He  clung  grimly  to  the  lantern,  with  the  result  that 
the  gyrations  of  that  little  red  light  in  the  darkness 
would  have  put  to  shame  an  expert's  exhibition  with 
a  luminous  dumb-bell.  The  while  Shanley  spoke 
earnestly  to  himself. 

"  Queshun  is  am  I  drunk — thash's  the  queshun.  If 
I'm  drunk — lose  my  job.  Thash  what  Carleton  said 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  117 

— lose  my  job.  If  I'm  not  drunk — s'all  right.  Wish 
I  knew  wesser  I'm  drunk  or  not." 

He  relapsed  into  silent  communion  and  debate. 
This  lasted  for  a  very  long  period,  during  which,  mar- 
velous to  relate,  he  had  not  only  reached  a  point  oppo- 
site his  box-car  domicile,  but,  being  oblivious  of  that 
fact,  had  kept  on  along  the  track.  Progress,  however, 
was  becoming  more  and  more  difficult.  Shanley  was 
assuming  a  position  that  might  be  likened  somewhat 
to  the  letter  C,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  force  of 
gravity  seemed  to  be  exerting  an  undue  influence  on 
his  head.  Shanley  was  coming  to  earth. 

As  a  result  of  his  communion  with  himself  he  began 
to  talk  again,  and  his  words  suggested  that  he  had  sus- 
picions of  the  truth. 

"  Jus'  my  luck,"  said  he  bitterly.  "  Jus'  my  luck. 
Allus  same  kind  of  luck.  What'd  I  have  to  do  wis 
Peto  Mara — Mars — Marscheeno's  birthday  ?  Nothing. 
Nothing  'tall.  'Twasn't  my  fault.  Jus'  my  luck.  Jus' 
my " 

Shanley  came  to  earth.  Also  his  head  came  into 
contact  with  the  unyielding  steel  of  the  left-hand  rail, 
and  as  a  result  he  sprawled  inertly  full  across  the  right 
of  way,  not  ten  yards  west  of  where  the  Glacier  River 
swings  in  to  crowd  the  track  close  up  against  the 
mountain  base. 

Providence  sometimes  looks  after  those  who  are  un- 
able to  look  after  themselves.  By  the  law  of  proba- 
bilities the  lantern  should  have  met  disaster  quick 
and  absolute ;  but,  instead,  when  it  fell  from  Shanley 's 
hand,  it  landed  right  side  up  just  outside  the  rail  be- 


n8     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

tween  two  ties,  and,  apart  from  a  momentary  and  hesi- 
tant flicker  incident  to  the  jolt,  burned  on  serenely. 
And  it  was  still  burning  when,  five  minutes  later,  above 
the  swish  of  leaping  waters  from  the  Glacier  River 
now  a  chattering,  angry  stream  with  swollen  banks, 
above  the  moan  of  the  wind  and  the  roll  of  the  thunder 
through  the  mountains,  above  the  pelting  splash  of  the 
steady  rain,  came  the  hoarse  scream  of  Number  One's 
whistle  on  the  grade. 

Sanderson,  in  the  cab,  caught  the  red  against  him  on 
the  right  of  way  ahead,  and  whistled  insistently  for  the 
track.  This  having  no  effect,  he  grunted,  latched  in 
the  throttle,  and  applied  the  "  air."  The  ray  of  the 
headlight  crept  along  between  the  rails,  hovered  over  a 
black  object  beside  the  lantern,  passed  on  again  and 
held,  not  on  the  glistening  rain-wet  rails — they  had 
disappeared — but  on  a  crumbling  road-bed  and  a  dark 
blotch  of  waters,  as  with  a  final  screech  from  the 
grinding  brake-shoes  Number  One  came  to  a  standstill. 

"  Holy  MacCheesar ! "  exclaimed  Sanderson,  as  he 
swung  from  the  cab. 

He  made  his  way  along  past  the  drivers  to  where 
the  pilot's  nose  was  inquisitively  poked  against  the 
lantern,  picked  up  the  lantern,  and  bent  over  Shanley. 

"  Holy  MacCheesar !  "  he  exclaimed  again,  straight- 
ening up  after  a  moment's  examination.  "  Holy  Mac- 
Cheesar!" 

"What's  wrong,  Sandy?"  snapped  a  voice  behind 
him,  the  voice  of  Kelly,  Spider  Kelly,  the  conduc- 
tor, who  had  hurried  forward  to  investigate  the  tin- 
scheduled  stop. 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  119 

"  Search  me,"  replied  Sanderson.  "  Looks  like  the 
Glacier  was  up  to  her  old  tricks.  There's  a  washout 
ahead,  and  a  bad  one,  I  guess.  But  the  meaning  of 
this  here  is  one  beyond  me.  The  fellow  was  curled  up 
on  the  track  just  as  you  see  him  with  the  light  burning 
alongside,  that's  what  saved  us,  but  he's  as  drunk  as 
a  lord." 

As  Kelly  bent  over  the  prostrate  form,  others  of  the 
train  crew  appeared  on  the  scene.  One  glance  he  gave 
at  Shanley's  never-under-any-circumstances-to-be-for- 
gotten  homely  countenance,  and  hastily  ordered  the 
men  to  go  forward  and  investigate  the  washout  ahead. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  engineer. 

"  The  man  is  not  drunk,  Sandy,"  said  he. 

"  He  is  gloriously  and  magnificently  drunk,  Kelly," 
replied  the  engineer. 

"  What  would  he  be  doing  here,  then  ?  He  is  not 
drunk." 

"  Sleeping  it  off.     He  is  disgracefully  drunk." 

"  Can  ye  not  see  the  bash  on  his  head  where  he  must 
have  stumbled  in  the  dark  trying  to  save  the  train  and 
struck  against  the  rail?  He  is  not  drunk." 

"  Can  ye  not  smell ? "  retorted  Sanderson.  "  He 
is  dead  drunk !  " 

"  I  have  fought  with  him  and  he  licked  me.  He  is 
a  man  and  a  friend  of  mine " — Kelly  shoved  his 
lantern  into  Sanderson's  face.  .  ff  He  is  not  drunk." 

"  He  is  not  drunk,"  said  Sanderson.  "  He  is  a  hero. 
What  will  we  do  with  him?  " 

"  We'll  carry  him,  you  and  me,  over  to  the  construc- 
tion shanty,  it's  only  a  few  yards,  and  put  him  in  his 


120     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

bunk.  He  works  here,  you  know.  McCann's  in  Big 
Cloud,  for  I  saw  him  there.  After  that  we'll  run  back 
to  the  Bend  for  orders  and  make  our  report." 

"  Hurry,  then/'  said  the  engineer.  "  Take  his  legs. 
What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Carleton,"  said  Kelly. 

"Carleton?     What's  Carleton  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  later  when  we  get  to  the  Bend.    Come 


on." 


"  H'm,"  said  Sanderson,  as  they  staggered  with 
their  burden  over  to  the  box-car  shack.  "  I've  an  idea 
that  bash  on  the  head  is  more  dirt  than  hurt.  He's 
making  a  speech,  ain't  he  ?  " 

"  Jus'  my  luck,"  mumbled  the  reviving  Shanley  dole- 
fully. "  Jus'  my  luck.  Allus  same  kind  of  luck." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Kelly.  "  Set  him  down  and  slide 
back  the  door.  That's  right.  In  with  him  now.  We 
haven't  got  time  to  make  him  very  comfortable,  but 
I  guess  he'll  do.  I  can  fix  him  up  better  at  the  Bend 
than  I  can  here." 

"At  the  Bend?  What  d'ye  mean?"  demanded 
Sanderson. 

"  You'll  see,"  replied  Kelly,  with  a  grin.     "  You'll 


see." 


And  Sanderson  saw.    So  did  Carleton — in  a  way. 

Kelly's  report,  when  they  got  to  the  Bend,  was  a 
work  of  art.  He  disposed  of  the  nature  and  extent  of 
the  washout  in  ten  brief,  well-chosen  words,  but  the 
operator  got  a  cramp  before  Kelly  was  through  cover- 
ing Shanley  with  glory.  The  passengers,  packed  in  the 
little  waiting-room  clamoring  for  details,  yelled  deliri- 


SHANLEY'S    LUCK  121 

ously  as  he  read  the  message  aloud — and  promptly 
took  up  a  collection,  a  very  generous  collection,  because 
all  collections  are  generous  at  psychological  moments 
— that  is  to  say,  if  not  delayed  too  long  to  allow  a  re- 
covery from  hysteria. 

At  Big  Cloud,  the  dispatcher,  because  the  washout 
was  a  serious  matter  that  not  only  threatened  to  tie 
up  traffic,  but  was  tying  it  up,  sent  a  hurry  call  to 
Carleton's  house  that  brought  the  super  on  the  run  to 
the  office.  By  this  time  the  collection  had  been  counted, 
and  the  total  wired  in,  as  an  additional  detail — one 
hundred  and  forty  dollars  and  thirty-three  cents.  The 
odd  change  being  a  contribution  from  a  Swede  in  the 
colonist  coach  who  could  not  speak  English,  and  who 
paid  because  a  man  in  uniform,  a  brakeman  acting  as 
canvasser,  made  the  request.  A  Swede  has  a  great 
respect  for  a  uniform. 

"  H'm,"  said  Carleton,  when  he  had  read  it  all.  "  I 
know  a  man  when  I  see  one.  Tell  Shanley  to  report 
here.  I  guess  we  can  find  something  better  for  him  to 
do  than  bossing  laborers.  What  ?  Yes,  send  the  letter 
up  on  the  construction  train.  One  hundred  and  forty, 
thirty-three,  h'm?  Tell  him  that,  too.  He'll  feel  good 
when  he  sees  it  in  the  morning." 

But  Shanley  did  not  feel  good  when  he  saw  it  in 
the  morning,  for  he  was  nursing  a  very  bad  headache 
and  a  stomach  that  had  a  tendency  to  squeamishness. 
The  letter  was  lying  on  the  floor,  where  some  one  had 
considerately  chucked  it  in  without  disturbing  him. 
His  eyes  fell  on  it  as  he  struggled  out  of  his  bunk. 
He  picked  it  up,  opened  it,  read  it — and  blinked.  His 


122      ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

face  set  with  a  very  blank  and  bewildered  expression. 
He  read  it  again,  and  again  once  more.  Then  he  went 
to  the  door  and  looked  out. 

A  construction  train  was  on  the  line  a  little  below 
him,  and  a  gang  of  men,  not  his  nor  Pietro  Maras- 
chino's men,  were  busily  at  work.  As  he  gazed,  his 
face  puckered.  The  problem  that  had  so  obsessed  him 
on  his  return  journey  from  the  birthday  celebration 
the  night  before  was  a  problem  no  longer. 

"  I  was  drunk,"  said  he,  with  conviction.  "  I  must 
have  been." 

He  went  back  to  the  letter  and  studied  it  again, 
scratching  his  head. 

"  Something,"  he  muttered,  "  has  happened.  What 
it  is,  I  dunno.  I  was  drunk,  an*  I'm  not  fired.  I  was 
drunk,  an'  I'm  promoted.  I  was  drunk,  an'  I'm  paid 
well  for  it,  very  well.  I  was  drunk — an'  I'll  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 

Which  was  exactly  the  advice  Kelly  took  pains  to 
give  him  half  an  hour  later,  when  Number  One  crawled 
down  to  the  Canon  and  halted  for  a  few  minutes  op- 
posite the  dismantled  box-car,  while  the  construction 
train  put  the  last  few  touches  to  its  work. 


VI 

THE    BUILDER 

THERE  are  two  sides  to  every  story — which  is  a 
proverb  so  old  that  it  is  in  the  running  with  Father 
Time  himself.  It  is  repeated  here  because  there  must 
be  some  truth  in  it — anything  that  can  stand  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  ages,  and  the  cynics,  and  the  wise  old 
philosophical  owls  without  getting  any  knock-out  dints 
punched  in  its  vital  spots  must  have  some  sort  of 
merit  fundamentally,  what?  Anyway,  the  company 
had  their  side,  and  the  men's  version  differed — of 
course.  Maybe  each,  in  a  way,  was  more  or  less  right, 
and,  equally,  in  a  way,  more  or  less  wrong.  Maybe, 
too,  both  sides  lost  their  tempers  and  got  their  crown- 
sheets  burned  out  before  the  arbitration  pow-wow 
had  a  chance  to  get  the  line  clear  and  give  anybody 
rights,  schedule  or  otherwise.  However,  be  that  as 
it  may,  whoever  was  right  or  whoever  was  wrong, 
one  or  the  other,  or  both,  it  is  the  strike,  not  the  ethics 
of  it,  that  has  to  do  with — but  just  a  moment,  we* re 
over-running  our  holding  orders. 

From  the  time  the  last  rail  was  spiked  home  and 
bridging  the  Rockies  was  a  reality,  not  a  dream — from 
then  to  the  present  day,  there  isn't  any  very  much 
better  way  of  describing  the  Hill  Division  than  to  call 
it  rough  and  ready.  Coming  right  down  to  cases,  the 


124     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

history  of  that  piece  of  track,  the  history  of  the  men 
who  gave  the  last  that  was  in  them  to  make  it,  and 
the  history  of  those  who  have  operated  it  since  isn't 
far  from  being  a  pretty  typical  and  comprehensive  ex- 
ample of  the  pulsing,  dominating,  dogged,  go-forward 
spirit  of  a  continent  whose  strides  and  progress  are  the 
marvel  of  the  world;  and,  withal,  it  is  an  example  so 
compact  and  concrete  that  through  it  one  may  see  and 
view  the  larger  picture  in  all  its  angles  and  in  all  its 
shades.  Heroism  and  fame  and  death  and  failure—it 
has  known  them  all — but  ever,  and  above  all  else,  it 
has  known  the  indomitable  patience,  the  indomitable 
perseverance,  the  indomitable  determination  against 
which  no  times,  nor  conditions,  nor  manners,  nor  cus- 
toms, nor  obstacles  can  stand — the  spirit  of  the  New 
Race  and  the  Great  New  Land,  the  essence  and  the 
germ  of  it. 

Building  a  road  through  the  Rockies  and  tapping 
the  Sierras  to  give  zest  to  the  finish  wasn't  an  infant's 
performance;  and  operating  it,  single-track,  on  crazy- 
wild  cuts  and  fills  and  tangents  and  curves  and  tun- 
nels and  trestles  with  nature  to  battle  and  fight  against, 
isn't  any  infant's  performance,  either.  The  Hill  Divi- 
sion was  rough  and  ready.  It  always  was,  and  it  is 
now — just  naturally  so.  And  Big  Cloud,  the  divi- 
sional point,  snuggling  amongst  the  buttes  in  the  east- 
ern foothills,  is  even  more  so.  It  boasts  about  every 
nationality  classified  in  certain  erudite  editions  of  small 
books  with  big  names,  and,  to  top  that,  has  an  extra 
anomaly  or  two  left  over  and  up  its  sleeve  for  good 
measure;  but,  mostly,  it  is,  or  rather  was — it  has 


THE    BUILDER  125 

x 

changed  some  with  the  years — composed  of  Indians, 
bad  Americans,  a  scattering  of  Chinese,  and  an  inde- 
scribable medley  of  humans  from  the  four  quarters  of 
Europe,  the  Cockney,  the  Polack,  the  Swede,  the  Rus- 
sian and  the  Italian — laborers  on  the  construction 
gangs.  Big  Cloud  was  a  little  more  than  rough  and 
ready — it  wasn't  exactly  what  you'd  call  a  health  resort 
for  finnicky  nerves. 

So,  take  it  by  and  large,  the  Hill  Division,  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  wasn't  the  quietest  or  most  peaceful 
locality  on  the  map  even  before  the  trouble  came. 
After  that — well,  mention  the  Big  Strike  to  any  of  the 
old-timers  and  they'll  talk  fast  enough  and  hard 
enough  and  say  enough  in  a  minute  to  set  you  wonder- 
ing if  the  biographers  hadn't  got  mixed  on  dates  and  if 
Dante  hadn't  got  his  material  for  that  little  hair-stiff- 
ener  of  his  no  further  away  than  the  Rockies,  and  no 
longer  back  than  a  few  years  ago.  But  no  matter 

The  story  opens  on  the  strike — not  the  ethics  of  it. 
There's  some  hard  feeling  yet — too  much  of  it  to  take 
sides  one  way  or  the  other.  But  then,  apart  from  that, 
this  is  not  the  story  of  a  strike,  it  is  the  story  of  men 
— a  story  that  the  boys  tell  at  night  in  the  darkened 
roundhouses  in  the  shadow  of  the  big  ten-wheelers  on 
the  pits,  while  the  steam  purrs  softly  at  the  gauges  and 
sometimes  a  pop- valve  lifts  with  a  catchy  sob.  They 
tell  it,  too,  across  the  tracks  at  headquarters,  or  on 
the  road  and  in  construction  camps;  but  they  tell  it 
better,  somehow,  in  the  roundhouse,  though  it  is  not 
an  engineer's  tale — and  Clarihue,  the  night  turner,  tells 
it  best  of  all.  Set  forth  as  it  is  here  it  takes  no  rank 


126     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

with  him, — but  all  are  not  so  fortunate  as  to  have 
listened  while  Clarihue  talked. 

Just  one  word  more  to  make  sure  that  the  red  isn't 
against  us  anywhere  and  we'll  get  to  Keating  and  Spir- 
law — just  a  word  to  say  that  Carleton,  "  Royal  "  Carle- 
ton,  was  superintendent  then,  and  Regan  was  master 
mechanic,  Harvey  was  division  engineer,  Spence  was 
chief  dispatcher,  and  Riley  was  trainmaster.  Pretty 
good  men  that  little  group,  pretty  good  railroaders— 
there  have  never  been  better.  Some  of  them  are  bigger 
now  in  the  world's  eyes,  heads  of  systems  instead  of 
departments — and  some  of  them  will  never  railroad 
any  more.  However 

If  you  haven't  forgotten  Shanley  you  will  recall  the 
Glacier  Canon,  and,  most  of  all,  you  will  recall  the 
Glacier  River  with  its  treacherous  sandy  bed  that  snug- 
gled close  to  the  right  of  way  and  forced  the  track  hard 
against  the  rocky  walls  of  the  mountain's  base.  The 
havoc  the  Glacier  played  with  the  operating  depart- 
ment on  the  night  of  Shanley's  memorable  heroism 
was  not  the  first  time  it  had  misbehaved  itself,  nor  was 
it  the  last — that  was  the  trouble.  It  washed  out  the 
road-bed  with  such  consistent  persistency,  on  so  little 
provocation,  and  did  it  so  effectually  as  to  stir  at  last 
to  resentment  even  the  torpid  blood  of  the  directors 
down  East.  So  they  voted  the  sum,  though  it  hurt, 
and  solaced  themselves  with  the  thought  that  after  all 
it  was  economy — which  was  true. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do  against  that  over- 
hospitable  and  affectionate  little  stream,  and  that  was 
to  get  away  from  it;  but,  before  proceeding  to  do  so — 


THE    BUILDER  127 

in  order  to  get  elbow  room  to  work  so  that  the  flyers 
and  the  fast  mails  and  the  traffic  generally  wouldn't  be 
hung  up  every  time  a  Polack  swung  a  pick — they 
pushed  the  track  out  over  the  chattering  river  on  a  long, 
temporary,  hybrid  trestle  of  wood  and  steel.  That 
done,  the  rest  was  up  to  Spirlaw — up  to  Spirlaw  and 
Keating. 

The  plans  called  for  the  shaving  down  of  the  moun- 
tain-side, the  barbering,  mostly,  to  be  done  with  dyna- 
mite, for  the  beard  of  the  Rockies  is  not  the  down  of 
a  youth.  So,  when  the  trestle  was  finished,  Spirlaw 
with  a  gang  of  some  thirty  Polacks  moved  into  con- 
struction camp,  promptly  tore  up  the  old  track,  and 
set  themselves  to  the  task  in  hand.  A  little  later,  Keat- 
ing joined  them. 

Spirlaw  was  a  road  boss,  and  the  roughest  of  his 
kind.  Physically  he  was  a  giant;  and  which  of  the 
three  was  the  hardest,  his  face,  his  fist,  or  his  tongue, 
would  afford  the  sporting  element  a  most  excellent 
opportunity  to  indulge  in  a  little  book-making  with  the 
odds  about  even  all  round.  His  hair  was  a  coarse  mop 
of  tawny  brown  that  straggled  over  his  eyes;  and  his 
eyes  were  all  black,  every  bit  of  them — there  didn't 
seem  to  be  any  pupil  at  all,  which  gave  them  a  glint 
that  was  harder  than  a  cold  chisel.  Take  him  summed 
up,  Spirlaw  looked  a  pretty  tough  proposition,  and  in 
some  ways,  most  ways  perhaps,  he  was — he  never 
denied  it. 

"  What  the  blue  blinding  blazes,  d'ye  think,  h'm?  " 
he  would  remark,  reaching  into  his  hip  pocket  for  his 
"  chewing,"  as  he  swept  the  other  arm  comprehensively 


128     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

over  the  particular  crowd  of  sweating  foreigners  that 
happened  to  be  under  his  particular  jurisdiction  at  the 
time.  "  What  d'ye  think !  You  can't  run  cuts  an'  fills 
with  an  outfit  like  this  on  soft  soap  an'  candy  sticks, 
can  you  ?  Well  then — h'm  ?  " 

That  last  "  h'm  "  was  more  or  less  conclusive — very 
few  cared  to  pursue  the  argument  any  further.  At  a 
safe  distance,  the  Big  Fellows  on  the  division,  as  a 
salve  to  their  consciences  when  humanitarian  ideas 
were  in  the  ascendancy,  would  bombard  Spirlaw  with 
telegrams  which  were  forceful  in  tone  and  direful  in 
threat — but  that's  all  it  ever  amounted  to.  Spirlaw's 
work  report  for  a  day  on  anything,  from  bridging  a 
canon  to  punching  a  hole  in  the  bitter  hard  rock  of  the 
mountain-side,  was  a  report  that  no  one  else  on  the 
division  had  ever  approached,  let  alone  duplicated — 
and  figures  count  perhaps  just  a  little  bit  more  in  the 
operating  department  of  a  railroad  than  they  do  any- 
where else  in  the  world.  Spirlaw  used  the  telegrams 
as  spills  to  light  a  pipe  as  hard-looking  as  himself, 
whose  bowl  was  down  at  the  heels  on  one  side  from 
much  scraping,  and  on  such  occasions  it  was  more 
than  ordinarily  unfortunate  for  the  sour-visaged 
Polack  who  should  chance  to  arouse  his  ire. 

Some  men  possess  the  love  of  a  fight  and  their  na- 
tures are  tempestuous  by  virtue  of  their  nationality,  be- 
cause some  nationalities  are  addicted  that  way.  This 
may  have  been  the  case  with  Spirlaw — or  it  may  not. 
There's  no  saying,  for  Spirlaw's  nationality  was  a 
question  mark.  He  never  delivered  himself  on  the  sub- 
ject, and,  certainly,  there  was  no  figuring  it  out  from 


THE    BUILDER  129 

the  derivation  of  his  name — that  could  have  been  most 
anything,  and  could  have  come  from  most  anywhere. 

To  say  that  "  opposites  attract "  isn't  any  more 
original,  any  less  gray-bearded,  than  the  words  at  the 
head  of  these  pages.  Generally,  that  sort  of  thing  is 
figured  in  the  worn-out,  stale,  familiarity-breeds-con- 
tempt realm  of  platitude,  and  at  its  unctuous  repetition 
one  comes  to  turn  up  his  nose ;  but,  once  in  a  while,  life 
has  a  habit  of  getting  in  a  kink  or  a  twist  that  gives  you 
a  jolt  and  a  different  side-light,  and  then,  somehow, 
a  thing  like  that  rings  as  fresh  and  virile  as  though 
you  had  just  heard  it  for  the  first  time.  As  far  as  any 
one  ever  knew,  Keating  was  the  only  one  that  ever 
got  inside  of  Spirlaw's  shell,  the  only  one  that  the  road 
boss  ever  showed  the  slightest  symptoms  of  caring  a 
hang  about — and  yet,  on  the  surface,  between  the  two 
there  was  nothing  in  common.  Where  one  was  pol- 
ished the  other  was  rough;  where  one  was  weak  the 
other  was  strong.  Keating  was  small,  thin,  pale-faced, 
and  he  had  a  cough — a  cough  that  had  sent  him  West 
in  a  hurry  without  waiting  for  the  other  year  that 
would  have  given  him  his  engineer's  diploma  from  the 
college  in  the  East. 

When  the  boy,  he  wasn't  much  more  than  a  boy, 
dropped  off  at  Big  Cloud,  and  Carleton  read  the  letter 
he  brought  from  one  of  the  big  Eastern  operators,  the 
super  raised  his  eyebrows  a  little,  looked  him  over  and 
sent  him  out  to  Spirlaw.  Afterwards,  he  spoke  to 
Regan  about  him. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  him,  Tommy ;  but 
I  had  to  do  something,  what?  Any  one  with  half  an 


130     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

eye  could  tell  that  he  had  to  be  kept  out  of  doors. 
Thought  he  might  be  able  to  help  Spirlaw  out  a  little 
as  assistant,  h'm  ?  Guess  he'll  pick  up  the  work  quick 
enough.  He  don't  look  strong." 

"  Mabbe  it's  just  as  well,"  grinned  the  master 
mechanic.  "  He  won't  be  able  to  batter  the  gang  any. 
One  man  doing  that  is  enough — when  it's  Spirlaw." 

Spirlaw  heard  about  it  before  he  saw  Keating,  and 
he  swore  fervently. 

"  What  the  hell !  "  he  growled.  "  Think  I'm  runnin' 
a  nursery  or  an  outdoor  sanatorium  ?  I  guess  I've  got 
enough  to  do  without  lookin'  after  sick  kids,  I  guess  I 
have.  Fat  lot  of  help  he'll  be— help  my  eye !  I  don't 
need  no  help." 

But  for  all  that,  somehow,  from  the  first  minute 
when  Keating  got  off  the  local  freight,  that  stopped 
for  him  at  the  camp,  and  shoved  out  his  hand  to  Spir- 
law it  was  different — after  that  it  was  all  Keating  as 
far  as  the  road  boss  was  concerned. 

Queer  the  way  things  go.  Keating  looked  about  the 
last  man  on  earth  you  would  expect  to  find  rubbing 
elbows  with  an  iron-fisted  foreman  whose  tongue  was 
rougher  than  a  barbed-wire  fence ;  the  last  man  to  hold 
his  own  with  a  slave-driven  gang  of  ugly  Polacks.  He 
seemed  too  quiet,  too  shy,  too  utterly  unfit,  physically, 
for  that  sort  of  thing.  The  blood  was  all  out  of  the 
boy — he  got  rid  of  it  faster  than  he  could  make  it. 
But  his  training  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and, 
within  his  limitations,  he  took  hold  like  an  old  hand. 
That  was  what  caught  Spirlaw.  He  did  what  he  was 
told,  and  he  did  what  he  could — did  a  little  more  than 


THE    BUILDER  131 

he  could  at  times,  which  would  lay  him  up  for  a  bad 
two  or  three  days  of  it. 

"  Good  man,"  Spirlaw  scribbled  across  the  bottom 
of  a  report  one  day — a  day  that  was  about  equally 
divided  between  barking  his  knuckles  on  a  Polack's 
head  and  feeding  cracked  ice  to  Keating  in  his  bunk. 
Cracked  ice?  No,  it  wasn't  on  the  regular  camp  bill 
of  fare — but  the  company  supplied  it  for  all  that.  Spir- 
law, with  supreme  contempt  for  the  dispatchers  and 
their  schedules  and  their  train  sheets,  held  up  Number 
Twelve  and  the  porter  of  the  Pullman  for  a  goodly 
share  of  the  commodity  possessed  by  that  colored 
gentleman.  That's  what  Spirlaw  thought  of  Keating. 

For  the  first  few  weeks  after  he  struck  the  camp 
Keating  didn't  have  very  much  to  say  about  himself,  or 
anything  else  for  that  matter;  but  after  he  got  a  little 
nearer  to  Spirlaw  and  the  mutual  liking  grew  stronger, 
he  began  to  open  up  at  nights  when  he  and  the  road 
boss  sat  outside  the  door  of  the  construction  shanty 
and  watched  the  sun  lose  itself  behind  the  mighty 
peaks,  creep  again  with  a  wondrous  golden-tinted  glow 
between  a  rift  in  the  range,  and  finally  sink  with  en- 
suing twilight  out  of  sight.  Keating  could  talk  then. 

"  Don't  see  what  you  ever  took  up  engineerin'  for," 
remarked  Spirlaw  one  evening.  "  It's  about  the  rough- 
est kind  of  a  life  I  know  of,  an*  you ' 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  Keating  smiled.  "  You  think 
I'm  not  strong  enough  for  it.  Why,  another  year  out 
here  in  the  West  and  I'll  be  like  a  horse." 

"  Sure,  you  will,"  agreed  Spirlaw,  hastily.  "  I 
didn't  mean  just  that."  Then  he  sucked  his  briar  hard. 


132      ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

Spirlaw  wasn't  much  up  on  therapeutics,  he  knew  more 
about  blasting  rock,  but  down  in  his  heart  there  wasn't 
much  doubt  about  another  year  in  the  West  for  the 
boy,  and  another  and  another,  all  of  them — only  they 
would  be  over  the  Great  Divide  that  one  only  crosses 
once  when  it  is  crossed  forever.  Six  months,  four, 
three, — just  months,  not  years,  was  what  he  read  in 
Keating's  face.  "  What  I  meant,"  he  amended,  "  was 
that  you  don't  have  to.  From  what  you've  said,  I 
figur'  your  folks  back  there  would  be  willin'  to  stake 
you  in  most  any  line  you  picked  out,  h'm  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  have  to,"  Keating  answered,  and  his 
face  lighted  up  as  he  leaned  over  and  touched  the  road 
boss  on  the  sleeve.  "  But,  Spirlaw,  it's  the  greatest 
thing  in  all  the  world.  Don't  you  see?  A  man  does 
something.  He  builds.  I'm  going  to  be  a  builder — a 
builder  of  bridges  and  roads  and  things  like  that.  I 
want  to  do  something  some  day — something  that  will 
be  worth  while.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  be  an  en- 
gineer ;  because,  all  over  the  world  from  the  beginning, 
the  engineers  have  led  the  way  and — and  they've  left 
something  behind  them.  I  think  that's  the  biggest 
thing  they  can  say  of  any  man  when  he  dies — that  he 
was  a  builder,  that  he  left  something  behind  him.  I'd 
like  to  have  them  say  that  about  me.  Well,  after  I 
put  in  another  year  out  here — I'm  a  heap  better  even 
now  than  when  I  came — I'm  going  back  to  finish  my 
course,  and  then — well,  you  understand  what  I  want  to 
do,  don't  you  ?  " 

There  were  lots  of  talks  like  that,  evening  after  even- 
ing, and  they  all  of  them  ended  in  the  same  way — 


THE    BUILDER  133 

Spirlaw  would  knock  out  his  pipe  against  a  stone  or 
his  boot  heel,  and  "  figur'  he'd  stroll  up  the  camp  a 
bit  an*  make  sure  all  was  right  for  the  night.'* 

A  pretty  hard  man  Spirlaw  was,  but  under  the  rough 
and  the  brutal,  the  horny,  thick-shelled  exterior  was 
another  self,  a  strange  side  of  self  that  he  had  never 
known  until  he  had  known  Keating.  It  got  into  him 
pretty  deep  and  pretty  hard,  the  boy  and  his  ambitions ; 
and  the  irony  of  it,  grim  and  bitter,  deepened  his  pity 
and  roused,  too,  a  sense  of  fierce,  hot  resentment 
against  the  fate  that  mocked  in  its  pitiless  might  so 
defenseless  and  puny  a  victim.  To  himself  he  came  to 
call  Keating  "  The  Builder,"  and  one  day  when  Har- 
vey came  down  on  an  inspection  trip,  he  told  the  divi- 
sion engineer  about  it — that's  how  it  got  around. 

Carleton,  when  he  heard  it,  didn't  say  anything — 
just  crammed  the  dottle  in  his  pipe  down  with  his 
forefinger  and  stared  out  at  the  switches  in  the  yards. 
They  were  used  to  seeing  the  surface  of  things  plowed 
up  and  the  corners  turned  back  in  the  mountains,  there 
weren't  many  days  went  by  when  something  that 
showed  the  raw  didn't  happen  in  one  way  or  another, 
but  it  never  brought  callousness  or  indifference,  only, 
perhaps,  a  truer  sense  of  values. 

They  had  been  blasting  in  the  Canon  for  a  matter 
of  two  months  when  the  first  signs  of  trouble  began  to 
show  themselves,  and  the  beginning  was  when  the  shop 
hands  at  Big  Cloud  went  out — the  boiler-makers  and 
the  blacksmiths,  the  painters,  the  carpenters  and  the 
fitters.  The  construction  camp,  that  is  Spirlaw,  didn't 
worry  very  much  about  this  for  the  very  simple  reason 


134     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

that  there  didn't  appear  to  be  any  reason  why  it,  or  he, 
should — that  was  Regan's  hunt.  But  when  the  train 
crews  followed  suit  and  stray  rumors  of  a  fight  or  two 
at  Big  Cloud  began  to  come  in,  with  the  likelihood  of 
more  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  first,  it  put  a  different 
complexion  on  things ;  for  the  rioting,  what  there  had 
been  of  it,  lay,  not  at  the  door  of  the  railroad  boys, 
but  with  the  town's  loafers  and  hangers-on,  these  and 
the  foreign  element — particularly  the  foreign  element 
— the  brothers  and  the  cousins  of  the  Polacks  who 
were  swinging  the  picks  and  the  shovels  under  the  iron 
hand  of  Spirlaw,  their  temporary  lord  and  master — 
the  Polacks,  as  pungently  ungentle,  when  amuck,  as 
starved  pumas. 

Then  the  Brotherhood  said  "  quit,"  and  the  engine 
crews  followed  the  trainmen.  Things  began  to  look 
black,  and  headquarters  began  to  find  it  pretty  hard 
to  move  anything.  The  train  schedule  past  the  Canon 
was  cut  better  than  in  half,  and  the  faces  of  the  men 
in  the  cabs  and  the  cabooses  were  new  faces  to  those 
in  camp — the  faces  of  the  men  the  company  were  bring- 
ing in  on  hurry  calls  from  wherever  they  could  get 
them,  from  the  plains  East  or  the  coast  West. 

Every  day  brought  reports  of  trouble  from  one  end 
of  the  line  to  the  other,  more  rioting,  more  disorder 
at  Big  Cloud;  and,  in  an  effort  to  nip  as  much  of  it  in 
the  bud  as  possible,  Carleton  issued  orders  to  stop  all 
construction  work — all  except  the  work  in  Glacier 
Canon,  for  there  the  temporary  trestle  lay  uneasy  on 
his  mind. 

The  day  the  stop  orders  went  out  elsewhere  a  letter 


THE   BUILDER  135 

went  out  to  Spirlaw.  Spirlaw  read  it  and  his  face  set 
like  a  thunder  cloud.  He  handed  it  to  Keating. 

Keating  read  it — and  looked  serious. 

"  I  guess  things  aren't  any  too  rosy  down  there," 
he  commented ;  then  slowly :  "  I've  noticed  our  men 
seemed  a  bit  sullen  lately.  They  don't  care  anything 
much  about  the  strike,  it  must  be  a  sort  of  sympathetic 
movement  with  the  rest  of  their  crowd  that's  running 
wild  at  Big  Cloud — only  I  don't  just  figure  how  they 
can  know  very  much  about  what's  going  on.  We  don't 
ourselves,  for  that  matter." 

Spirlaw  smiled  grimly. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how,"  he  said.  "  I  caught  a  Polack 
in  the  camp  last  night  that  didn't  belong  here — and  I 
broke  his  head  for  the  second  time,  see?  He  used  to 
work  for  me  about  a  year  ago — that's  when  I  broke 
it  the  first  time.  He's  one  of  their  influential  citizens 
— name's  Kuryla.  Sneaked  in  here  to  stir  up  trouble 
— guess  he's  sorry  for  it,  I  guess  he  is." 

"  That's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  said  Keating,  his 
eyes  opening  a  little  wider  in  surprise. 

"  You  was  asleep,"  explained  Spirlaw  tersely. 

Keating  stared  curiously  at  the  road  boss  for  a  min- 
ute, then  he  glanced  again  at  the  super's  letter  which 
he  still  held  in  his  hand. 

"  Carleton  says  he  is  depending  on  you  to  put  this 
work  through  if  it's  a  possible  thing.  You  don't  really 
think  we'll  have  any  serious  trouble  here  though,  do 
you?" 

Spirlaw  bit  deeply  into  his  plug  before  he  answered. 

"  Yes,  son;  I  do,"  he  said  at  last.    "  And  there's  a 


136     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

good  many  reasons  why  we  will,  too.  Once  start  'em 
goin'  an'  there's  no  worse  hellions  on  earth  than  the 
breed  we're  livin'  next  door  to.  Furthermore  they 
don't  love  me — they're  just  afraid  of  me  as,  by  the 
holy  razoo,  I  mean  'em  to  be.  Let  'em  once  get  a  smell 
of  the  upper  hand  an'  it  would  be  all  day  an'  good-by. 
Let  'em  get  goin'  good  at  Big  Cloud  an'  they'll  get 
goin'  good  here — they'll  kind  of  figur'  then  that  there 
ain't  any  law  to  bother  'em — an',  unless  I  miss  my 
guess,  Big  Cloud's  in  for  the  hottest  celebration  in  its 
history,  which  will  be  goin'  some  for  it's  had  a  few 
before  that  weren't  tame  by  a  damn  sight." 

"  Well,"  inquired  Keating,  "  what  do  you  intend  to 
do?" 

"  H'm-m,"  drawled  Spirlaw  reflectively,  and  there 
was  a  speculative  look  in  his  eyes  as  they  roved  over 
his  assistant.  "  That's  what  I've  been  chewin'  over 
since  I  caught  that  skunk  Kuryla  last  night.  As  far 
as  I  can  figur'  it  the  chance  of  trouble  here  depends  on 
how  far  those  cusses  go  at  Big  Cloud.  If  I  knew  that, 
I'd  know  what  to  expect,  h'm  ?  I  thought  I'd  send  you 
up  to  headquarters  for  a  day.  You  could  have  a  talk 
with  the  super,  tell  him  just  where  we  stand  here,  an* 
size  things  up  there  generally.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.  All  right,  if  you  want  me  to," 
agreed  Keating  readily. 

"  That's  the  boy,"  said  Spirlaw,  heartily.  "  Number 
Twelve  will  be  along  in  half  an  hour.  I'll  flag  her,  an' 
you  can  go  an'  get  ready  now.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to 
take  along  to  Carleton." 

As  Keating,  with  a  nod  of  assent,  turned  briskly 


THE   BUILDER  137 

away,  Spirlaw  watched  him  out  of  sight — and  the  hint 
of  a  smile  played  over  the  lips  of  the  road  boss.  He 
pulled  a  report  sheet  from  his  pocket,  and  on  the  back 
of  it  scrawled  laboriously  a  letter  to  the  superintendent 
of  the  Hill  Division.  It  wasn't  a  very  long  letter  even 
with  the  P.  S.  included.  His  smile  hardened  as  he  read 
it  over. 

"  Supt.,  Big  Cloud,"  it  ran.  "  Dear  Sir :— Replying 
to  yours  8th  inst,  please  send  a  couple  of  good  .455, 
and  plenty  of  stuffing.  ('Plenty  of  stuffing'  was 
heavily  underscored.)  Yrs.  Resp.,  H.  Spirlaw.  P.S. 
Keep  the  boy  up  there  out  of  this."  (The  P.  S.  was 
even  more  heavily  underscored  than  the  other.) 

Wise  and  learned  in  the  ways  of  men — and  Polacks 
— was  Spirlaw.  Spirlaw  was  not  dealing  with  the 
possibility  of  trouble — it  was  simply  a  question  of  how 
long  it  would  be  before  it  started.  He  folded  the  letter, 
sealed  it  in  one  of  the  company's  manilas,  and,  as  he 
watched  Number  Twelve  disappear  around  the  bend 
steaming  east  for  Big  Cloud  with  Keating  aboard  her 
and  the  epistle  reposing  in  Keating's  pocket,  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  that  were  big  as  derrick  booms 
and  drew  in  a  long  breath  like  a  man  from  whose 
shoulders  has  dropped  a  heavy  load. 

That  day  Spirlaw  talked  from  his  heart  to  the  men, 
and  they  listened  in  sullen,  stupid  silence,  leaning  on 
their  picks  and  shovels. 

"  You  know  me,"  he  snapped,  and  his  eyes  starting 
at  the  right  of  the  group  rested  for  a  bare  second  on 
each  individual  face  as  they  swept  down  the  line. 
"  You  know  me.  You've  been  actin'  like  sulky  dogs 


138     ON   THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

lately — don't  think  I  haven't  spotted  it.  You  saw  what 
happened  to  that  coyote  friend  of  yours  that  sneaked  in 
here  last  night.  I  meant  it  as  a  lesson  for  the  bunch 
of  you  as  well  as  him.  The  yarns  he  was  fillin'  you  full 
of  are  mostly  lies,  an'  if  they  ain't  it's  none  of  your 
business,  anyhow.  It  won't  pay  you  to  look  for  trouble, 
I  promise  you  that.  You  can  take  it  from  me  that 
I'll  bash  the  first  man  to  powder  that  tries  it.  Get 
that?  Well  then,  wiggle  them  picks  a  bit  an'  get 
busy !  " 

"  The  man  that  hits  first,"  said  Spirlaw  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  away,  "  is  the  man  that  usually  comes  out 
on  top.  I  guess  them  there  few  kind  words  of  mine'll 
give  'em  a  little  something  to  chew  on  till  Carle- 
ton  sends  that  hardware  down,  I  guess  they  will, 
h'm?" 

The  camp  was  pretty  quiet  that  night — quieter  than 
usual.  The  cook-house  and  the  three  bunk-houses, 
that  lay  a  few  hundred  yards  east  of  the  trestle,  might 
have  been  occupied  by  dead  men  for  all  the  sounds 
that  came  from  them.  Occasionally,  Spirlaw,  sitting 
out  as  usual  in  front  of  his  own  shanty,  that  was  be- 
tween the  trestle  and  the  gang's  quarters,  saw  a  Polack 
or  two  skulk  from  one  of  the  bunk-houses  to  the  other 
— and  he  scowled  savagely  as  he  divided  his  glances 
between  them  and  the  sky.  It  looked  like  a  storm  in 
the  mountains,  and  a  storm  in  the  mountains  is  never 
by  any  possibility  to  be  desired — least  of  all  was  it  to 
be  desired  just  then.  The  men  at  work  was  one  thing; 
the  men  cooped  up  for  a  day,  or  two  days,  of  enforced 
idleness  with  the  temper  they  were  in  was  another — 


THE    BUILDER  139 

Spirlaw  turned  in  that  night  with  the  low,  ominous  roll 
of  distant  thunder  for  a  lullaby. 

Once  in  the  night  he  woke  suddenly  at  the  sound  of 
a  splitting  crash,  and  once,  twice,  and  again,  like  a 
fierce,  winking  stream  of  flame,  the  lightning  filled  the 
shack  bright  as  day,  while  on  the  roof  the  rain  beat 
steadily  like  the  tattoo  of  a  corps  of  snare  drums. 
Spirlaw  smiled  grimly  as  the  darkness  shut  down  on 
him  again. 

"  Got  the  little  builder  out  just  about  the  right  time, 
h'm?  "  he  remarked  to  himself;  and,  turning  over  in 
his  bunk,  went  to  sleep  again — but  even  in  his  sleep 
the  grim  smile  lingered  on  his  lips. 

The  morning  broke  with  the  steady  downpour  un- 
abated. Everything  ran  water,  and  the  rock  cut  was 
rilled  with  it.  Work  was  out  of  the  question.  Spir- 
law ate  his  breakfast,  that  the  dripping  camp  cook 
brought  him,  and  then,  putting  on  his  rubber  boots  and 
coat,  started  over  for  the  track.  Number  Eleven  was 
due  at  the  Canon  at  seven-thirty,  and  she  would  have 
the  package  of  "  hardware  "  he  had  asked  Carleton  for. 

But  though  seven-thirty  came,  Number  Eleven  did 
not — neither  did  any  other  train,  east  or  west.  The 
hours  passed  from  a  long  morning  to  drag  through  a 
longer  afternoon.  Something  was  wrong  somewhere 
—and  badly  wrong  at  that.  Spirlaw's  face  was  blacker 
than  the  storm.  Twice,  once  in  the  morning  and  once 
in  the  afternoon,  he  started  down  the  track  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Keefer's  Siding,  which  was  just  what  its  name 
proclaimed  it  to  be — a  siding,  no  more,  no  less,  only 
there  was  an  operator  there.  Each  time,  however,  he 


140      ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

changed  his  mind  after  getting  no  further  than  a  few 
yards.  The  Polacks  could  be  no  less  alive  to  the  fact 
than  himself  that  something  out  of  the  ordinary  was  in 
the  air,  and  second  considerations  swung  strongly  to 
the  advisability  of  sticking  close  to  the  camp,  so  that 
his  presence  might  have  the  effect  of  dampening  the 
ardor  of  any  mischief  that  might  be  brewing. 

It  was  not  until  well  on  toward  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  and  the  last  of  the  twilight  that  the  hoarse 
screech  of  a  whistle  sounded  down  the  canon  grade — 
a  long  blast  and  three  short  ones.  It  was  belated  Num- 
ber Eleven  whistling  for  the  camp — she  wouldn't  stop, 
just  slow  down  to  transact  her  business.  Spirlaw, 
who  was  in  his  shanty  at  the  time,  snatched  up  his 
hat,  dashed  out  of  the  door,  and  headed  for  the  bend 
of  the  track.  As  he  did  so,  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye, 
he  caught  sight  of  the  Polacks  clustered  with  out- 
poked  heads  from  the  open  doors  of  the  bunk-houses. 

As  he  reached  the  line,  Number  Eleven  came  round 
the  curve,  and  the  door  of  the  express  car  swung  back. 
The  messenger  dropped  a  package  into  his  hand  that 
the  road  boss  received  with  a  grim  smile,  and  a  word 
into  his  ear  that  caused  Spirlaw's  jaw  to  drop — nor 
was  that  all  that  dropped,  for,  from  the  rear  end,  as 
the  train  rolled  by — dropped  Keating. 

White- faced  and  shaky  the  boy  looked — more  so 
than  usual.  Spirlaw  stared  as  though  he  had  seen  an 
apparition,  stared  for  a  minute  in  silence  before  he 
could  lay  tongue  to  words — then  they  came  like  the 
out-spout  of  a  volcano. 

"What  the  hell's  the  meanin'  of  this?"  he  roared. 


THE    BUILDER  141 

"  Who  in  the  double-blanked  blazes  let  you  out  of  Big 
Cloud,  h'm  ?  I'll  have  some " 

"  Let's  get  in  out  of  the  wet,"  broke  in  Keating, 
smiling  through  a  spell  of  coughing  that  racked  him  at 
that  moment.  "  You  can  growl  your  head  off  then, 
if  you  like  " — and  he  started  on  a  run  for  the  shack. 

Once  inside,  Spirlaw  rounded  on  the  boy  again,  and 
he  stopped  only  when  he  was  out  of  breath. 

"  Didn't  Carleton  tell  you  to  stay  where  you  was  ?  " 
he  finished  bitterly. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Keating,  "that's  about  the  first 
thing  he  did  say  after  he  had  read  your  letter,  when  I 
gave  it  to  him  yesterday.  Then  I  tumbled  to  why  you 
had  sent  me  out  of  camp.  You're  about  as  square  as 
they  make  them,  Spirlaw.  You  needn't  blame  Carle- 
ton,  he  had  about  all  he  could  do  without  paying  any 
attention  to  me  or  any  one  else.  Had  any  wires  or 
news  in  here  ?  " 

Spirlaw  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  but  I  knew  something  was  up,  because  Num- 
ber Eleven  is  the  first  train  in  or  out  to-day.  The  ex- 
press messenger  just  said  they'd  cut  loose  in  Big  Cloud 
and  wrecked  about  everything  in  sight,  but  I  guess  he 
was  puttin'  it  on  a  bit." 

"  He  didn't  put  on  anything,"  said  Keating  slowly. 
"  My  God,  Spirlaw,  it  was  an  awful  night !  The 
freight-house  and  the  shops  and  the  roundhouse,  what's 
left  of  them,  are  ashes.  They  cut  all  the  wires  and 
then  they  cut  loose  themselves — the  Polacks  and  that 
crowd,  you  know.  Yes,  they  wrecked  everything  in 
sight,  and  there's  a  dozen  lives  gone  out  to  pay  for 


142     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

it."  Keating  stopped  suddenly,  and  again  began  to 
cough. 

Spirlaw  looked  at  the  boy  uneasily,  and  mechan- 
ically fumbled  with  the  cords  of  the  package  he  had 
laid  upon  the  table.  By  the  time  he  had  removed  the 
wrappers  and  disclosed  two  ugly,  businesslike  looking 
.455  and  a  half-dozen  boxes  of  cartridges,  Keating's 
paroxysm  had  passed. 

"  I  guess  it  was  exciting  enough  for  me,  anyhow  " 
— Keating  tried  hard  to  make  his  laugh  ring  true. 
"  I'm  a  little  weak  from  it  yet." 

"  If  you  weren't  sick,"  Spirlaw  burst  out,  "  I'd  make 
you  sick  for  comin'  back  here.  You  know  well  enough 
we'll  get  it  next — you  knew  so  well  you  came  back  to 
help- 

"  I  told  Carleton  he  ought  to  send  some  help  down 
here,"  Keating  interrupted  hastily;  "and  he  just 
looked  at  me  like  a  crazy  man — he  was  half  mad  any- 
how with  the  ruin  of  things.  '  Help ! '  he  flung  out  at 
me.  '  Where's  it  coming  from  ?  Let  Spirlaw  yank 
up  his  stakes  and  pull  out  if  things  get  looking  bad ! ' 

"  Pull  out !  "  shouted  Spirlaw,  in  a  sudden  roar. 
"Pull  out!  Me!  Not  for  all  the  cross-eyed,  ham- 
strung Polacks  on  the  system !  " 

"  I  think  you'd  better,"  said  Keating  quietly. 
"After  what  I  saw  last  night,  I  think  you'd  better. 
There  was  no  holding  them — they  were  like  savages, 
and  the  further  they  went  the  worse  they  got.  They 
were  backed  up  by  whisky  and  the  worst  element  in 
town.  I  was  in  the  station  with  Carleton,  Regan, 
Harvey,  Riley  and  Spence  and  some  of  the  other  dis- 


THE    BUILDER  143 

patchers.  It  was  a  regular  pitched  battle,  and  in  spite 
of  their  revolvers  the  station  would  have  gone  with  the 
rest  if,  along  toward  morning,  the  striking  trainmen 
and  the  Brotherhood  hadn't  taken  a  hand  and  helped 
us  out.  I  don't  know  that  it's  over  yet,  that  it  won't 
break  out  again  to-night ;  though  I  heard  Carleton  say 
there'd  be  a  detachment  of  the  police  in  town  by  four 
o'clock.  I  wish  you  would  pull  out,  Spirlaw.  You 
said  yourself  that  all  these  fellows  here  needed  to  start 
them  sticking  their  claws  into  you  was  a  little  encour- 
agement from  the  other  end.  They've  been  afraid  of 
you,  but  they  hate  you  like  poison.  Once  started, 
they'll  be  worse  than  the  crowd  at  Big  Cloud  for  hate 
is  a  harder  driver  than  whisky.  Then  besides,  I  really 
think  you'd  be  of  more  use  in  Big  Cloud.  You  could 
do  some  good  there  no  matter  what  the  end  was,  while 
here  you're  alone  and  you  stand  to  lose  everything  and 
gain  nothing.  I  wish  you  would  pull  out,  Spirlaw, 
won't  you?  " 

Spirlaw  reached  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  Keat- 
ing's  shoulder,  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I've  got  a  whole  lot  to  lose,"  he  answered,  his 
hard  face  softening  a  little.  "  A  whole  lot.  I  can't 
say  things  the  way  you  do,  but  I  guess  you'll  under- 
stand. You  got  something  that  means  a  whole  lot  to 
you,  that  you'd  risk  anything  for — what  you  want  to 
do  and  what  you  want  to  leave  behind  you  when  it 
comes  along  time  to  cash  in.  Well,  I  guess  most  of 
us  have  in  one  way  or  another,  though  mabbe  it  don't 
rank  anywheres  up  to  that.  I  reckon,  too,  a  whole  lot 
of  us  don't  never  think  to  put  it  in  words,  an'  a  whole 


144     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

lot  of  us  couldn't  if  we  tried  to,  but  it's  there  with 
any  man  that's  any  good.  I'd  rather  go  out  for  keeps 
than  pull  out — I'd  rather  they'd  plant  me.  D'ye  think 
I'd  want  to  live  an'  have  to  cross  the  street  because  I 
couldn't  look  even  a  Polack  in  the  eyes — a  man  would 
be  better  dead,  what  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Keating  did  not  answer,  he  seemed 
to  be  weighing  the  possibility  of  still  shaking  the  de- 
termination of  the  road  boss  before  accepting  it  as 
irrevocable:  then,  evidently  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  useless  to  argue  further,  he  pointed  to  the 
revolvers. 

"  Then  the  sooner  you  load  those  the  better,"  he 
jerked  out. 

Spirlaw  looked  at  him  curiously,  questioningly. 

"  Because,"  went  on  Keating,  answering  the  un- 
spoken interrogation,  "  when  I  dropped  off  the  train  I 
saw  that  fellow  Kuryla — he  was  pointed  out  to  me  in 
Big  Cloud  yesterday — and  three  or  four  more  drop 
off  on  the  other  side.  I  didn't  know  they  were  on  the 
train  until  then,  of  course,  or  I  would  have  had  them 
put  off.  There  isn't  much  doubt  about  what  they  are 
here  for,  is  there?  " 

"  So  that's  it,  is  it?  "  Spirlaw  ripped  out  with  an 
oath.  "  No,  there  ain't  much  doubt !  " 

He  snatched  up  a  cartridge-box,  slit  the  paper  band 
with  his  thumb  nail,  and,  breaking  the  revolvers,  be- 
gan to  cram  the  cartridges  into  the  cylinders.  His 
face  was  twitching  and  the  red  that  flushed  it  shaded 
to  a  deep  purple.  Not  another  word  came  from  him — 
just  a  deadly  quiet.  He  thrust  the  weapons  into  his 


THE   BUILDER  145 

pockets,  strode  to  the  door,  opened  it,  stepped  over  the 
threshold — and  stopped.  An  instant  he  hung  there  in 
indecision,  then  he  came  back,  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk,  and  looked  at 
Keating  grimly. 

"  There's  been  one  train  along,  there'll  be  another," 
he  snapped.  "  An'  the  first  one  that  comes  you'll  get 
aboard  of.  I  hate  to  keep  those  whinin'  coyotes  waitin', 

bat- 

"  I'll  take  no  train,"  Keating  cut  in  coolly ;  "  but 
I'll  take  a  revolver." 

Spirlaw  growled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  Kuryla  at  first  ?  " 
he  demanded  abruptly. 

"  You  know  why  as  well  as  I  do,"  smiled  Keating. 
"  I  wanted  to  get  you  away  from  here  if  I  could. 
There  wouldn't  have  been  any  use  trying  at  all  if  I'd 
begun  by  telling  you  that.  Wild  horses  wouldn't  have 
budged  you  then.  As  for  a  train,  what's  the  use  of 
talking  about  it,  there  probably  won't  be  another  one 
along  under  an  hour.  In  the  meantime,  give  me  one 
of  the  guns." 

«  Not  m " 

Spirlaw's  refusal  died  half  uttered  on  his  lips,  as 
he  sprang  suddenly  to  his  feet ;  then  he  whipped  out  the 
revolvers  and  shoved  one  quickly  into  Keating's  hand. 

Carried  down  with  the  sweep  of  the  wind  came  the 
sound  of  many  voices  raised  in  shouts  and  discordant 
song.  It  grew  louder,  swelled,  and  broke  into  a  high- 
pitched,  defiant  yell. 

"  Whisky ! "    gritted    Spirlaw    between    his    teeth. 


146     ON   THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

"  That  devil  Kuryla  and  the  coyotes  that  came  with 
him  knew  the  best  an'  quickest  way  to  start  the  ball 
rollin'.  Well,  son,  I  reckon  we're  in  for  it.  The  only 
thing  I'm  sorry  about  is  that  you're  here ;  but  that  can't 
be  helped  now.  You  were  white  clean  through  to 
come — Holy  Mother,  listen  to  that !  " — another  yell 
broke  louder,  fiercer  than  before  over  the  roar  of  the 
storm. 

Spirlaw  stepped  to  the  door  and  peered  out.  It  was 
already  getting  dark.  The  rain  still  poured  in  sheets, 
and  the  wind  howled  down  the  gorge  in  wild,  furious, 
spasmodic  gusts.  Thin  streaks  of  light  strayed  out 
from  the  doors  of  the  bunk-houses,  and  around  the 
doors  were  gathered  shadowy  groups.  A  moment 
more  and  the  shadowy  groups  welded  into  a  single 
dark  mass.  Came  a  mad,  exultant  yell  from  a  single 
throat.  It  was  caught  up,  flung  back,  echoed  and  re- 
echoed by  a  score  of  voices — and  the  dark  mass  began 
to  move. 

"  Guess  you'd  better  put  out  that  light,  son,"  said 
Spirlaw  coolly.  "  There's  no  use  makin'  targets  of 
our " 

Before  he  ended,  before  Keating  had  more  than 
taken  a  step  forward,  a  lump  of  rock  shivered  the  little 
window  and  crashed  into  the  lamp — it  was  out  for 
keeps.  A  howl  followed  this  exhibition  of  marksman- 
ship, and,  following  that,  a  volley  of  stones  smashed 
against  the  side  of  the  shack  thick  and  fast  as  hail — 
then  the  onrush  of  feet. 

Spirlaw's  revolver  cut  the  black  with  a  long,  blind- 
ing flash,  then  another,  and  another.  Screams  and 


THE    BUILDER  147 

shrieks  answered  him,  but  it  did  not  halt  the  Polacks. 
In  a  mob  they  rushed  the  door.  Spirlaw  sprang  back, 
trying  to  close  it  after  him;  instead,  a  dozen  hands 
grasped  and  half  wrenched  it  from  its  hinges. 

"Lie  down  on  the  floor,  Spirlaw,  quick!" — it  was 
Keating's  voice,  punctuated  with  a  cough.  The  next 
instant  his  gun  barked,  playing  through  the  doorway 
like  a  gatling. 

From  the  floor  the  road  boss  joined  in.  The  mob 
wavered,  pitched  swaying  this  way  and  that,  then 
broke  and  ran,  struggling  with  each  other  to  get  out 
of  the  line  of  fire. 

"  Hurrah !  "  cried  Keating.  "  I  guess  that  will  hold 
them." 

'  'Tain't    begun,"    was    Spirlaw's    grim    response. 
"Where's  them  cartridges?" 

"  On  the  table— got  them?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Spirlaw,  after  a  minute's  groping. 
"  Here,  put  a  box  in  your  pocket." 

"  What  are  they  up  to  now  ?  "  asked  Keating  as,  in 
the  silence  that  had  fallen,  they  reloaded  and  listened. 

"  God  knows,"  growled  Spirlaw ;  "  but  I  guess  we'll 
find  out  quick  enough." 

As  he  spoke,  from  a  little  distance  away,  came  the 
splintering  crash  of  woodwork — then  silence  again. 

"  That's  the  storehouse,"  Spirlaw  snarled.  "  They're 
after  the  bars  an'  anything  else  they  can  lay  their 
hands  on.  Guess  they  weren't  countin'  on  our  havin' 
anything  more  than  our  fists  to  fight  with,  guess  they 
weren't." 

Keating's  only  reply  was  a  cough. 


148     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

The  minutes  passed,  two,  three,  five  of  them.  Once 
outside  sounded  what  might  have  been  the  stealthy 
scuffle  of  feet  or  only  a  storm-sound  so  construed  by 
the  imagination.  Then,  from  the  direction  of  the  river- 
bed, sudden,  sharp,  came  a  terrific  roar. 

"  My  God !  "  yelled  Spirlaw.  "  There's  the  trestle 
gone — they Ve  blown  it  up !  They're  sure  to  have  laid 
a  fuse  here,  too.  Get  out  of  here  quick !  Fool  that  I 
was,  I  might  have  known  it  was  the  dynamite  they 
were  after." 

Both  men  were  scrambling  for  the  door  as  he  spoke. 
They  reached  it  not  an  instant  too  soon.  The  ground 
behind  them  lifted,  heaved ;  the  walls,  the  roof  of  the 
shack  rose,  cracked  like  eggshells,  and  scattered  in 
flying  pieces — and  the  mighty,  deafening  detonation 
of  the  explosion  echoed  up  and  down  the  gorge,  echoed 
again — and  died  away. 

The  mob  caught  sight  of  them  as  they  ran  and,  foiled 
for  the  moment,  sent  up  a  yell  of  rage — then  started 
in  pursuit. 

"  Make  for  the  cut,"  shouted  Spirlaw.  "  We  can 
hold  them  off  there  behind  the  rocks." 

Keating  had  no  breath  for  words.  Panting,  sick,  his 
head  swimming,  a  fleck  of  blood  upon  his  lips,  he 
struggled  after  the  giant  form  of  the  road  boss;  while, 
behind,  coming  ever  closer,  ringing  in  his  ears,  were 
the  wild  cries  of  the  maddened  Polacks.  The  splash  of 
water  revived  him  a  little  as  they  plunged  along  the 
old  right  of  way  where  the  river,  flooded  by  the  storm, 
had  again  claimed  its  own.  The  worst  of  it  was  up  to 
his  armpits.  A  grip  on  his  shoulder  and  a  pull  from 


THE   BUILDER  149 

Spirlaw  helped  him  over.  They  gained  the  other  side 
with  a  bare  two  yards  separating  them  from  the  mob 
behind,  went  on  again — and  then  Spirlaw  caught  his 
foot,  tripped  and  pitched  headlong,  causing  Keating, 
at  his  heels,  to  stumble  and  fall  over  him. 

Like  wild  beasts  the  Polacks  surged  upon  them. 
Keating  tried  to  regain  his  feet — but  he  got  no  further 
than  his  knees  as  a  swinging  blow  from  a  pick-handle 
caught  him  on  his  head.  Half-stunned,  he  sank  back 
and,  as  consciousness  left  him,  he  heard  Spirlaw's  great 
voice  roar  out  like  the  maddened  bellow  of  a  bull,  saw 
the  giant  form  rise  with,  it  seemed,  a  dozen  Polacks 
clinging  to  neck  and  shoulders,  legs  and  body,  saw  him 
shake  them  off  and  the  massive  arms  rise  and  fall — 
and  all  was  a  blur,  all  darkness. 

The  road  boss  lay  stretched  out  a  yard  away  from 
him  when  he  opened  his  eyes.  He  was  very  weak.  He 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  From  the  camp  down  the 
line  he  could  see  the  lights  in  the  bunk-houses,  hear 
drunken,  chorused  shouts.  He  crept  to  Spirlaw,  called 
him,  shook  him — the  big  road  boss  never  moved.  The 
Polacks  had  evidently  left  both  of  them  for  dead — 
and  one,  it  seemed,  was.  He  slid  his  hand  inside  the 
other's  vest  for  the  heart  beat.  So  faint  it  was  at  first 
he  could  not  feel  it,  then  he  got  it,  and,  realizing  that 
Spirlaw  was  still  alive  he  straightened  up  and  looked 
helplessly  around — and,  in  a  flash,  like  the  knell  of 
doom,  Spirlaw's  words  came  back  to  him :  "  There's 
the  trestle  gone! " 

Sick  the  boy  was  with  his  clotting  lungs,  deathly 
sick,  weak  from  the  blow  on  his  head,  dizzy,  and  his 


150     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

brain  swam.  "  There's  the  trestle  gone!  " — he  coughed 
it  out  between  blue  lips. 

"  There's  the  trestle  gone! " 

Keefer's  Siding  was  a  mile  away.  Somehow  he 
must  reach  it,  must  get  the  word  along  the  line  that 
the  trestle  was  out,  get  the  word  along  before  the 
stalled  traffic  moved,  before  the  first  train  east  or  west 
crashed  through  to  death,  before  more  wreck  and  ruin 
was  added  to  the  tale  that  had  gone  before.  He  bent 
to  Spirlaw's  ear  and  three  times  called  him  frantically : 
"  Spirlaw !  Spirlaw !  Spirlaw! "  There  was  no  re- 
sponse. He  tried  to  lift  him,  tried  to  drag  him — the 
great  bulk  was  far  beyond  his  strength.  And  the 
minutes  were  flying  by,  each  marking  the  one  perhaps 
when  it  would  be  too  late,  too  late  to  warn  any  one  that 
the  trestle  was  out. 

Just  up  past  the  rock  cut,  a  bare  twenty  yards  away 
where  the  leads  to  the  temporary  track  swung  into  the 
straight  of  the  main  line,  was  the  platform  handcar 
they  had  used  for  carrying  tools  and  the  odds  and  ends 
of  supplies  between  the  storehouse  and  the  work — if 
he  could  only  get  Spirlaw  there ! 

He  called  him  again,  shook  him,  breathing  a  prayer 
for  help.  The  road  boss  stirred,  raised  himself  a  little, 
and  sank  down  again  with  a  moan. 

"  Spirlaw,  Spirlaw,  for  God's  sake,  man,  try  to  get 
up!  I'll  help  you.  You  must,  do  you  hear,  you 
must!" — he  was  dragging  at  the  road  boss's  collar. 

Keating's  voice  seemed  to  reach  the  other's  con- 
sciousness, for,  weakly,  dazed,  without  sense,  blindly, 
Spirlaw  got  upon  his  knees,  then  to  his  feet,  and,  stag- 


THE   BUILDER  151 

gering,  reeling  like  a  drunken  man,  his  arm  around 
Keating's  neck,  his  weight  almost  crushing  to  the 
ground  the  one  sicker  than  himself,  the  two  stumbled, 
pitched,  and,  at  the  end,  crawled  those  twenty  yards. 

"The  handcar,  Spirlaw,  the  handcar!"  gasped 
Keating.  "  Get  on  it.  You  must !  Try !  Try !  " 

Spirlaw  straightened,  lurched  forward,  and  fell  half 
across  the  car  with  out-flung  arms — unconscious  again. 

The  rest  Keating  managed  somehow,  enough  so  that 
the  dangling  legs  freed  the  ground  by  a  few  inches; 
then,  with  bursting  lungs,  far  spent,  he  unblocked  the 
wheels,  pushed  the  car  down  the  little  spur,  swung  the 
switch,  dragged  himself  aboard,  and  began  to  pump 
his  way  west  toward  Keefer's  Siding. 

No  man  may  tell  the  details  of  that  mile,  every  inch 
of  which  was  wrung  from  blood  that  oozed  from 
parted,  quivering  lips;  no  man  may  question  from 
Whom  came  the  strength  to  the  frail  body,  where 
strength  was  not ;  the  reprieve  to  the  broken  lungs,  that 
long  since  should  have  done  their  worst — only  Keating- 
knew  that  the  years  were  ended  forever,  that  with 
every  stroke  of  the  pump-handle  the  time  was  shorter. 
The  few  minutes  to  win  through — that  was  the  last 
stake ! 

At  the  end  he  choked — fighting  for  his  consciousness, 
as,  like  dancing  points,  switch  lights  swam  before  him. 
He  checked  with  the  brake,  reeled  from  the  car,  fell, 
tried  to  rise  and  fell  back  again.  Then,  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  he  crept  toward  the  station  door.  It  had 
come  at  last.  The  hemorrhage  that  he  had  fought 
back  with  all  his  strength  was  upon  him.  He  beat 


152     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

upon  the  door.  It  opened,  a  lantern  was  flashed  upon 
him,  and  he  fell  inside. 

"  The  trestle's  out  at  the  Glacier — hold  trains  both 
ways — Polacks — Spirlaw  on — handcar — I " 

That  was  all.    Keating  never  spoke  again. 

"  I  dunno  as  you'd  call  him  a  builder,"  says  Clarihue, 
the  night  turner,  when  he  tells  the  story  in  the 
darkened  roundhouse  in  the  shadow  of  the  big  ten- 
wheelers  on  the  pits,  while  the  steam  purrs  softly  at 
the  gauges  and  sometimes  a  pop-valve  lifts  with  a 
catchy  sob,  "  I  dunno  as  you  would.  It  depends  on  the 
way  you  look  at  it.  Accordin*  to  him,  he  was.  He  left 
something  behind  him,  what  ?  " 


VII 

THE  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  DEVIL'S  SLIDE 

THERE  is  one  bad  piece  of  track  on  the  Hill  Division, 
particularly  bad,  which  is  the  same  as  saying  that  it  is 
the  worst  piece  of  track,  bar  none,  on  the  American 
Continent.  Not  that  the  engineers  were  to  blame — 
they  weren't.  It  was  Dame  Nature  in  the  shape  of  the 
Rockies — Dame  Nature  and  the  directors. 

Sir  Ivers  Clayborn,  gray-haired  and  grizzled,  a  man 
schooled  in  the  practical  school  of  many  lands  and 
many  years,  who  was  chief  consulting  engineer  when 
the  road  was  building,  advised  a  double-looped  tunnel 
that,  according  to  his  sketch,  looked  something  like  the 
figure  8  canted  over  sideways.  The  directors  poised 
their  glasses  and  examined  the  sketch  with  interest 
until  they  caught  sight  of  the  penciled  estimate  in  the 
corner.  That  settled  it.  They  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  vote.  They  asked  for  an  alternative — and 
they  got  it.  They  got  the  Devil's  Slide. 

First  and  last,  it  has  euchred  more  money  out  of  the 
treasury  of  the  Transcontinental  than  it  would  have 
taken  to  build  things  Sir  Ivers'  way  to  begin  with ;  and 
it  has  taken  some  years,  a  good  many  of  them,  for  the 
directors  to  learn  their  lesson.  The  old  board  never 
did,  for  that  matter;  but,  thanks  perhaps  to  younger 
blood,  they've  begun  now  to  build  as  they  should  have 

153 


154     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

built  in  the  first  place.  It  isn't  finished  yet,  that  double- 
looped  tunnel,  it  won't  be  for  years,  but,  no  matter,  it's 
begun,  and  some  day  a  good  many  more  than  a  few 
men  will  sleep  the  easier  because  of  it. 

From  Carleton,  the  super,  to  the  last  section  hand 
and  track-walker,  the  Devil's  Slide  was  a  nightmare. 
The  dispatchers,  under  their  green-shaded  lamps, 
cursed  it  in  the  gray  hours  of  dawn ;  the  traffic  depart- 
ment cursed  it  spasmodically,  but  at  such  times  so 
whole-heartedly  and  with  such  genuine  fervor  and 
abandon  that  its  occasional  lapses  into  silence  were 
overlooked ;  the  motive  power  department  in  the  shape 
of  Regan,  the  master  mechanic,  cursed  it  all  the  time, 
and  did  it  breathlessly.  It  had  only  one  friend — 
the  passenger  agent's  department.  The  passenger 
agent's  department  swore  by  it — on  account  of  the 
scenery. 

"  Scenery ! "  gulped  the  dispatchers,  and  the  white 
showed  under  their  nail  tips  as  their  fingers  tightened 
on  their  keys. 

"  Scenery ! "  howled  the  traffic  department,  and 
reached  for  the  claim  file. 

"  Scenery !  " — Regan  didn't  say  it — he  choked. 
Just  choked,  and  spat  the  exclamation  point  in  a  stream 
of  black-strap. 

"Scenery!"  murmured  Mr.  General  Passenger 
Agent  esthetically,  waving  a  soft  and  diamond  be- 
decked hand  from  the  platform  of  Carleton's  private 
car.  "  Wonderful !  Grand !  Magnificent !  We've  got 
them  all  beaten  into  a  coma.  No  other  road  has  any- 
thing like  it  anywhere  in  the  world." 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       155 

"  They  have  not,"  agreed  Carleton,  and  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul  was  in  his  words. 

Everybody  was  right. 

The  general  passenger  agent  was  right — the  scenic 
grandeur  was  beyond  compare,  and  he  made  the  most 
of  it  in  booklets,  in  leaflets,  in  pamphlets,  and  in  a  score 
of  pages  in  a  score  of  different  magazines. 

The  others  were  right — the  Devil's  Slide  was  every- 
thing that  the  ethics  of  engineering  said  it  shouldn't  be. 
It  was  neither  level  nor  straight.  In  its  marvelous  two 
miles  from  the  summit  of  the  pass  to  the  canon  below, 
its  nearest  approach  to  the  ethical  was  three  percent 
drop.  There  wasn't  much  of  that — most  of  it  was  a 
straight  five !  It  twisted,  it  turned,  it  slid,  it  slithered, 
and  it  dove  around  projecting  mountain-sides  at  scan- 
dalous tangents  and  with  indecent  abruptness. 

Chick  Coogan  swore,  with  a  grin,  that  he  could  see 
his  own  headlight  coming  at  him  about  half  the  time 
every  trip  he  made  up  or  down.  That,  of  course,  is 
exaggerating  a  little — but  not  much!  Coogan  sized 
up  the  Devil's  Slide  pretty  well  when  he  said  that,  all 
things  considered,  pretty  well — there  wasn't  much 
chance  to  mistake  what  he  meant,  or  what  the  Devil's 
Slide  was,  or  what  he  thought  of  it.  Anyway,  be  that 
as  it  may,  Coogan's  description  gave  the  division  the 
only  chance  they  ever  had  to  crack  a  smile  when  the 
Devil's  Slide  was  in  question. 

They  smiled  then,  those  railroaders  of  the  Rockies, 
but  they'll  look  at  you  queerly  now  if  you  mention  the 
two  together — Coogan  and  the  Devil's  Slide.  Fate  is 
a  pretty  grim  player  sometimes. 


156     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

Any  one  on  the  Hill  Division  can  tell  you  the  story — 
they've  reason  to  know  it,  and  they  do — to  the  last  man. 
If  you'd  rather  get  it  first  hand  in  a  roundhouse,  or 
between  trains  from  the  operator  at  some  lone  station 
that's  no  more  than  a  siding,  or  in  the  caboose  of  a  way 
freight — if  you  are  a  big  enough  man  to  ride  there,  and 
that  means  being  bigger  than  most  men — or  anywhere 
your  choice  or  circumstance  leads  you  from  the  super's 
office  to  a  track-walker's  shanty ;  if  you'd  rather  get  it 
that  way,  and  you'll  get  it  better,  far  better,  than  you 
will  here,  don't  try  any  jolly  business  to  make  the  boys 
talk — just  say  a  good  word  for  Coogan,  Chick  Coogan. 
That's  the  "  open  sesame  " — and  the  only  one. 

There's  no  use  talking  about  the  logical  or  the  illogi- 
cal, the  rational  or  the  irrational,  when  it  comes  to  Coo- 
gan's  story.  Coogan's  story  is  just  Coogan's  story, 
that's  all  there  is  to  it.  What  one  man  does  another 
doesn't.  You  can't  cancel  the  human  equation  because 
there's  nothing  to  cancel  it  with ;  it's  there  all  the  time 
swaying,  compelling,  dominating  every  act  in  a  man's 
life.  The  higher  branches  of  mathematics  go  far,  and 
to  some  men  three  dimensions  are  but  elemental,  but 
there  is  one  problem  even  they  have  never  solved  and 
never  will  solve — the  human  equation.  What  Coogan 
did,  you  might  not  do — or  you  might. 

Coogan  didn't  come  to  the  Transcontinental  a  full- 
blown engineer  from  some  other  road  as  a  good  many 
of  the  boys  have,  though  that's  nothing  against  them ; 
Coogan  was  a  product  of  the  Hill  Division  pure  and 
simple.  He  began  as  a  kid  almost  before  the  steel  was 
spiked  home,  and  certainly  before  the  right  of  way  was 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       157 

shaken  down  enough  to  begin  to  look  like  business.  He 
started  at  the  bottom  and  he  went  up.  Call-boy, 
sweeper,  wiper,  fireman — one  after  the  other.  Pro- 
motion came  fast  in  the  early  days,  for,  the  Rockies 
once  bridged,  business  came  fast,  too ;  and  Coogan  had 
his  engine  at  twenty-one,  and  at  twenty-four  he  was 
pulling  the  Imperial  Limited. 

"  Good  goods,"  said  Regan.  "  That's  what  he  is. 
The  best  ever." 

Nobody  questioned  that,  not  only  because  there  was 
no  one  on  the  division  who  could  put  anything  over 
Coogan  in  a  cab,  but  also  because,  and  perhaps  even 
more  pertinent  a  reason,  every  one  liked  Coogan — some 
of  them  did  more  than  that. 

Straight  as  a  string,  clean  as  a  whistle  was  Coogan, 
six  feet  in  his  stockings  with  a  body  that  played  up  to 
every  inch  of  his  height,  black  hair,  jet  black,  black  eyes 
that  laughed  with  you,  never  at  you,  a  smile  and  a 
cheery  nod  always — the  kind  of  a  man  that  makes  yon 
feel  every  time  you  see  them  that  the  world  isn't  such 
an  eternal  dismal  grind  after  all.  That  was  Chick  Coo- 
gan— all  except  his  heart.  Coogan  had  a  heart  like  a 
woman's,  and  a  hard  luck  story  from  a  'bo  stealing  a 
ride,  a  railroad  man,  or  any  one  else  for  that  matter, 
never  failed  to  make  him  poorer  by  a  generous  percent- 
age of  what  happened  to  be  in  his  pocket  at  the  time. 
Who  wouldn't  like  him!  Queer  how  things  happen. 

It  was  the  day  Coogan  got  married  that  Regan  gave 
him  505  and  the  Limited  run  as  a  sort  of  wedding  pres- 
ent ;  and  that  night  Big  Cloud  turned  itself  completely 
inside  out  doing  honor  and  justice  to  the  occasion. 


158     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

Big  Cloud  has  had  other  celebrations,  before  and 
since,  but  none  quite  so  unanimous  as  that  one.  Re- 
straint never  did  run  an  overwhelmingly  strong  favor- 
ite with  the  town,  but  that  night  it  was  hung  up  higher 
than  the  arms  on  the  telegraph  poles.  Men  that  the 
community  used  to  hide  behind  and  push  forward  as 
hostages  of  righteousness,  when  it  was  on  its  good  be- 
havior and  wanted  to  put  on  a  front,  cut  loose  and  out- 
shone the  best — or  the  worst,  if  you  like  that  better— 
of  the  crowd  that  never  made  any  bones  about  being 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fence.  They  burned  red  flares, 
very  many  of  them,  that  Carleton  neglected  to  imagine 
had  any  connection  with  the  storekeeper  and  the  supply 
account;  they  committed  indiscretions,  mostly  of  a 
liquid  nature,  that  any  one  but  the  trainmaster,  who 
was  temporarily  blind  in  both  eyes,  could  have  seen; 
and,  as  a  result,  the  Hill  Division  the  next  day  was  an 
eminently  paralytic  and  feeble  affair.  This  is  a  very 
general  description  of  the  event,  because  sometimes  it 
is  not  wise  to  particularize — this  is  a  case  in  point. 

Coogan's  send-off  was  a  send-off  no  other  man,  be 
he  king,  prince,  president,  sho-gun,  or  high  mucky- 
muck  of  whatever  degree,  could  have  got — except 
Coogan.  Coogan  got  it  because  he  was  Coogan,  just 
Coogan — and  the  night  was  a  night  to  wonder  at. 

Regan  summarized  it  the  next  evening  over  the  usual 
game  of  pedro  with  Carleton,  upstairs  over  the  station 
in  the  super's  office. 

"  Apart  from  Coogan  and  me,"  said  the  master 
mechanic,  in  a  voice  that  was  still  suspiciously  husky, 
"  apart  from  Coogan  and  me  and  mabbe  the  minis- 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      159 

ter — "  the  rest  was  a  wave  of  his  hand.  Regan  could 
wave  his  hand  with  a  wealth  of  eloquence  that  was 
astounding. 

"  Quite  so,"  agreed  Carleton,  with  a  grin.  "  Too  bad 
to  drag  them  into  it,  though.  Both  '  peds '  to  me, 
Tommy.  It's  a  good  thing  for  the  discipline  of  the 
division  that  bigamy  is  against  the  law,  what  ?  " 

"  They'll  be  talking  of  it,"  said  Regan  reminis- 
cently,  "  when  you  and  me  are  on  the  scrap  heap, 
Carleton." 

"  I  guess  that's  right,"  admitted  the  super.  "  Play 
on,  Tommy." 

But  it  wasn't.  They  only  talked  of  Coogan's  wed- 
ding for  about  a  year — no,  they  don't  talk  about  it 
now.  We'll  get  to  that  presently. 

The  Imperial  Limited  was  the  star  run  on  the  divi- 
sion— Regan  gave  Coogan  the  thirty-third  degree  when 
he  gave  him  that — that  and  505,  which  was  the  last 
word  in  machine  design.  And  Coogan  took  them,  took 
them  and  the  schedule  rights  that  pertained  thereto, 
which  were  a  clear  and  a  clean-swept  track,  and  day 
after  day,  up  hill  and  down,  Number  One  or  Number 
Two,  as  the  case  might  be,  pulled  into  division  on  the 
dot.  Coogan's  stock  soared — if  that  were  possible; 
but  not  Coogan.  The  youngest  engineer  on  the  road 
and  top  of  them  all,  would  have  been  excuse  enough 
for  him  to  show  his  oats  and,  within  decent  limits,  no 
one  would  have  thought  the  worse  of  him  for  it — Coo- 
gan never  turned  a  hair.  He  was  still  the  friend  of  the 
'bo  and  the  man  in  trouble,  still  the  Coogan  that  had 
been  a  wiper  in  the  roundhouse;  and  yet,  perhaps,  not 


i6o     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

quite  the  same,  for  two  new  loves  had  come  into  his 
life — his  love  for  Annie  Coogan,  and  his  love,  the  love 
of  the  master  craftsman,  for  505.  In  the  little  house  at 
home  he  talked  to  Annie  of  the  big  mountain  racer  and 
Annie,  being  an  engineer's  daughter  as  well  as  an  en- 
gineer's wife,  listened  with  understanding  and  a  smile, 
and  in  the  smile  was  pride  and  love ;  in  the  cab  Coogan 
talked  of  Annie,  always  Annie,  and  one  day  he  told  his 
fireman  a  secret  that  made  big  Jim  Dahleen  grin  sheep- 
ishly and  stick  out  a  grimy  paw. 

Fate  is  a  pretty  grim  player  sometimes — and  always, 
it  seems,  the  cards  are  stacked. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  and  the  months  went  by, 
and  then  there  came  a  morning  when  a  sober-,  serious- 
faced  group  of  men  stood  gathered  in  the  super's  office, 
as  Number  Two's  whistle,  in  from  the  Eastbound  run, 
sounded  down  the  gorge.  They  looked  at  Regan. 
Slowly,  the  master  mechanic  turned,  went  out  of  the 
room  and  down  the  stairs  to  the  platform,  as  505  shot 
round  the  bend  and  rolled  into  the  station.  For  a  mo- 
ment Regan  stood  irresolute,  then  he  started  for  the 
front-end.  He  went  no  further  than  the  colonist  coach, 
that  was  coupled  behind  the  mail  car.  Here  he 
stopped,  made  a  step  forward,  changed  his  mind, 
climbed  over  the  colonist's  platform,  dropped  down  on 
the  other  side  of  the  track,  and  began  to  walk  toward 
the  roundhouse — they  changed  engines  at  Big  Cloud 
and  505,  already  uncoupled,  was  scooting  up  for  the 
spur  to  back  down  for  the  'table. 

The  soles  of  Regan's  boots  seemed  like  plates  of  lead 
as  he  went  along,  and  he  mopped  his  forehead  nerv- 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       161 

ously.  There  was  a  general  air  of  desertion  about  the 
roundhouse.  The  'table  was  set  and  ready  for  505,  but 
there  wasn't  a  soul  in  sight.  Regan  nodded  to  himself 
in  sympathetic  understanding.  He  crossed  the  turn- 
table, walked  around  the  half  circle,  and  entered  the 
roundhouse  through  the  engine  doors  by  the  far  pit — 
the  one  next  to  that  which  belonged  to  505.  Here,  just 
inside,  he  waited,  as  the  big  mogul  came  slowly  down 
the  track,  took  the  'table  with  a  slight  jolt,  and  stopped. 
He  saw  Coogan,  big,  brawny,  swing  out  of  the  cab  like 
an  athlete,  and  then  he  heard  the  engineer  speak  to  his 
fireman. 

"  Looks  like  a  graveyard  around  here,  Jim.  Wonder 
where  the  boys  are.  I  won't  wait  to  swing  the  'table, 
they'll  be  around  in  a  minute,  I  guess.  I  want  to  get 
up  to  the  little  woman." 

"  All  right,"  Dahleen  answered.  "  Leave  her  to  me, 
I'll  run  her  in.  Good  luck  to  you,  Chick." 

Coogan  was  starting  across  the  yards  with  a  stride 
that  was  almost  a  run.  Regan  opened  his  mouth  to 
shout — and  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat  instead. 
Twice  he  made  as  though  to  follow  the  engineer,  and 
twice  something  stronger  than  himself  held  him  back ; 
and  then,  as  though  he  had  been  a  thief,  the  master 
mechanic  stole  out  from  behind  the  doors,  went  back 
across  the  tracks,  climbed  the  stairs  to  Carleton's  room 
with  lagging  steps,  and  entered. 

The  rest  were  still  there :  Carleton  in  his  swivel  chair, 
Harvey,  the  division  engineer,  Spence,  the  chief  dis- 
patcher, and  Riley,  the  trainmaster.  Regan  shook  his 
head  and  dropped  into  a  seat. 


162     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  I  couldn't/'  he  said  in  a  husky  voice.  "  My  God, 
I  couldn't"  he  repeated,  and  swept  out  his  arms. 

A  bitter  oath  sprang  from  Carleton's  lips,  lips  that 
were  not  often  profane,  and  his  teeth  snapped  through 
the  amber  of  his  briar.  The  others  just  looked  out  of 
the  window. 

Mac  Vicar,  a  spare  man,  took  the  Limited  out  that 
night,  and  it  was  three  days  before  Coogan  reported 
again.  Maybe  it  was  the  fit  of  the  black  store-clothes 
and  perhaps  the  coat  didn't  hang  just  right,  but  as  he 
entered  the  roundhouse  he  didn't  look  as  straight  as  he 
used  to  look  and  there  was  a  queer  inward  slope  to  his 
shoulders  and  he  walked  like  a  man  who  didn't  see  any- 
thing. The  springy  swing  through  the  gangway  was 
gone.  He  climbed  to  the  cab  as  an  old  man  climbs — 
painfully.  The  boys  hung  back  and  didn't  say  any- 
thing, just  swore  under  their  breaths  with  full  hearts  as 
men  do.  There  wasn't  anything  to  say — nothing  that 
would  do  any  good. 

Coogan  took  505  and  the  Limited  out  that  night, 
took  it  out  the  night  after  and  the  nights  that  followed, 
only  he  didn't  talk  any  more,  and  the  slope  of  the 
shoulders  got  a  little  more  pronounced,  a  little  more 
noticeable,  a  little  beyond  the  cut  of  any  coat.  And  on 
the  afternoons  of  the  lay-overs  at  Big  Cloud,  Coogan 
walked  out  behind  the  town  to  where  on  the  slope  of  the 
butte  were  two  fresh  mounds — one  larger  than  the 
other.  That  was  all. 

Regan,  short,  paunchy,  big-hearted  Regan,  tackled 
Jim  Dahleen,  Coogan's  fireman. 

"  What's  he  say  on  the  run,  Jim,  h'm?  " 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      163 

"  He  ain't  talkative/'  Dahleen  answered  shortly. 

"  What  the  hell,"  growled  the  master  mechanic  deep 
in  his  throat,  to  conceal  his  emotion.  "  'Tain't  doing 
him  any  good  going  up  there  afternoons.  God  knows 
it's  natural  enough,  but  'tain't  doing  him  any  good,  not 
a  mite — nor  them  either,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  h'm  ?  You 
got  to  make  him  talk,  Jim.  Wake  him  up." 

"  Why  don't  you  talk  to  him?  "  demanded  the  fire- 
man. 

"  H'm,  yes.  So  I  will.  I  sure  will,"  Regan 
answered. 

And  he  meant  to,  meant  to,  honestly.  But,  somehow, 
Coogan's  eyes  and  Coogan's  face  said  "  no  "  to  him  as 
they  did  to  every  other  man,  and  as  the  days  passed, 
almost  a  month  of  them,  Regan  shook  his  head,  per- 
plexed and  troubled,  for  he  was  fond  of  Coogan. 

Then,  one  night,  it  happened. 

Regan  and  Carleton  were  alone  over  their  pedro  at 
headquarters,  except  for  Spence,  the  dispatcher,  in  the 
next  room.  It  was  getting  close  on  to  eleven-thirty. 
The  Imperial  Limited,  West-bound,  with  Coogan  in  the 
cab,  had  pulled  out  on  time  an  hour  and  a  half  before. 
The  game  was  lagging,  and,  as  usual,  the  conversation 
had  got  around  to  the  engineer,  introduced,  as  it  always 
was,  by  the  master  mechanic. 

"  I  sure  don't  know  what  to  do  for  the  boy,"  said  he. 
"  I'd  like  to  do  something.  Talking  don't  amount  to 
anything,  does  it,  h'm  ? — even  if  you  can  talk.  I  can't 
talk  to  him,  what?" 

"  A  man's  got  to  work  a  thing  like  that  out  for  him- 
self, Tommy,"  Carleton  answered,  "  and  it  takes  time. 


1 64     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

That's  the  only  thing  that  will  ever  help  him — time.  I 
know  you're  pretty  fond  of  Coogan,  even  more  than 
the  rest  of  us  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal,  but  you're 
thinking  too  much  about  it  yourself." 

Regan  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Carleton.  It's  got  me.  Time,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  may  be  all  right,  but  it  ain't  very 
promising  when  a  man  broods  the  way  he  does.  I  ain't 
superstitious  or  anything  like  that,  but  I've  a  feeling  I 
can't  just  explain  that  somehow  something's  going  to 
break.  Kind  of  premonition.  Ever  have  anything  like 
that  ?  It  gets  on  your  mind  and  you  can't  shake  it  off. 
It's  on  me  to-night  worse  than  it's  ever  been." 

"  Nonsense,"  Carleton  laughed.  "  Premonitions  are 
out  of  date,  because  they've  been  traced  back  to  their 
origin.  Out  here,  I  should  say  it  was  a  case  of  too 
much  of  Dutchy's  lunch-counter  pie.  You  ought  to 
diet  anyway,  Tommy,  you're  getting  too  fat.  Hand 
over  that  fine-cut  of  yours,  I " 

He  stopped  as  a  sharp  cry  came  from  the  dispatcher's 
room,  followed  by  an  instant's  silence,  then  the  crash 
of  a  chair  sounded  as,  hastily  pushed  back,  it  fell  to  the 
floor.  Quick  steps  echoed  across  the  room,  and  the 
next  moment  Spence,  with  a  white  face  and  holding  a 
sheet  of  tissue  in  his  hand,  burst  in  upon  them. 

Carleton  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"What's  the  matter,  Spence?"  he  demanded 
sharply. 

"  Number  One,"  the  dispatcher  jerked  out,  and  ex- 
tended the  sheet  on  which  he  had  scribbled  the  message 
as  it  came  in  off  the  sounder. 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       165 

Carleton  snatched  the  paper,  and  Regan,  leaping 
from  his  chair,  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Number  One,  engine  505,  jumped  track  east  of 
switch-back  number  two  in  Devil's  Slide.  Report  three 
known  to  be  killed,  others  missing.  Engineer  Coogan 
and  fireman  Dahleen  both  hurt,"  they  read. 

Carleton  was  ever  the  man  of  action,  and  his  voice 
rang  hard  as  chilled  steel. 

"  Clear  the  line,  Spence.  Get  your  relief  and  wrecker 
out  at  once.  Wire  Dreamer  Butte  for  their  wrecker 
as  well,  so  they  can  work  from  both  ends.  Now  then, 
Tommy — my  God,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  are  you 
crazy?" 

Regan  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  his 
face  strained,  his  arm  outstretched,  finger  pointing  to 
the  wall. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "I  knew  it. 
That's  what  it  is." 

Carleton's  eyes  traveled  from  the  master  mechanic 
to  the  wall  and  back  again  in  amazed  bewilderment, 
then  he  shook  Regan  by  the  shoulder. 

"  That's  what,  what  is  ?  "  he  questioned  brusquely. 
"  Are  you  mad,  man  ?  " 

"The  date,"  whispered  Regan,  still  pointing  to 
where  a  large  single-day  calendar  with  big  figures  on  it 
hung  behind  the  super's  desk.  "  It's  the  twenty- 
eighth." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Tommy," — Carle- 
ton's  voice  was  quiet,  restrained. 

"  Mean !  "  Regan  burst  out,  with  a  hard  laugh.  "  I 
don't  mean  anything,  do  I?  'Tain't  anything  to  do 


166     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

with  it,  it's  just  coincidence,  mabbe,  and  mabbe  it's 
not.  It's  a  year  ago  to-night  Coogan  was  married/' 

For  a  moment  Carleton  did  not  speak;  like  Regan, 
he  stared  at  the  wall. 

"  You  think  that " 

"  No,  I  don't  " — Regan  caught  him  up  roughly — 
"  I  don't  think  anything  at  all.  I  only  know  it's  queer, 
ghastly  queer." 

Carleton  nodded  his  head  slowly.  Steps  were  com- 
ing up  the  stairs.  The  voice  of  Flannagan,  the  wreck- 
ing boss,  reached  them,  other  voices  excited  and  loud 
joined  in.  He  slapped  the  master  mechanic  on  the 
back. 

"  I  don't  wonder  it  caught  you,  Tommy,"  he  said. 
"  It's  almost  creepy.  But  there's  no  time  for  that  now. 
Come  on." 

Regan  laughed,  the  same  hard  laugh,  as  he  followed 
the  chief  into  the  dispatcher's  room. 

"  East  of  number  two  switch-back,  eh  ?  "  he  swore. 
"  If  there's  any  choice  for  hellishness  anywhere  on 
that  cursed  stretch  of  track,  that's  it.  My  God,  it's 
come,  and  it's  come  good  and  hard — good  and  hard." 

It  had.  It  was  a  bad  mess,  a  nasty  mess — but,  like 
everything  else,  it  might  have  been  worse.  Instead  of 
plunging  to  the  right  and  dropping  to  the  canon  eigh- 
teen hundred  feet  below,  505  chose  the  inward  side  and 
rammed  her  nose  into  the  gray  mass  of  rock  that  made 
the  mountain  wall.  The  wreckers  from  Dreamer  Butte 
and  the  wreckers  from  Big  Cloud  tell  of  it  to  this  day. 
For  twenty-four  hours  they  worked  and  then  they 
dropped  — and  fresh  men  took  their  places.  There  was 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      167 

no  room  to  work — just  the  narrow  ledge  of  the  right 
of  way  on  a  circular  sweep  with  the  jutting  cliff  of 
Old  Piebald  Mountain  sticking  in  between,  hiding  one 
of  the  gangs  from  the  other,  and  around  which  the  big 
wrecking  cranes  groped  dangling  arms  and  chains  like 
fishers  angling  for  a  bite.  It  was  a  mauled  and  tangled 
snarl,  and  the  worst  of  it  went  over  the  canon's  edge 
in  pieces,  as  axes,  sledges,  wedges,  bars  and  cranes 
ripped  and  tore  their  way  to  the  heart  of  it.  And  as 
they  worked,  those  hard-faced,  grimy,  sweating  men 
of  the  wrecking  crews,  they  wondered — wondered  that 
any  one  had  come  out  of  it  alive. 

Back  at  headquarters  in  Big  Cloud  they  wondered  at 
it,  too — and  they  wondered  also  at  the  cause.  Every 
one  that  by  any  possible  chance  could  throw  any  light 
upon  it  went  on  the  carpet  in  the  super's  office.  Every- 
body testified — everybody  except  Dahleen,  the  fireman, 
and  Coogan,  the  engineer;  and  they  didn't  testify  be- 
cause they  couldn't.  Coogan  was  in  the  hospital  with 
queer,  inconsequent  words  upon  his  tongue  and  a  welt 
across  his  forehead  that  had  laid  bare  the  bone  from  eye 
to  the  hair-line  of  his  skull ;  and  Dahleen  was  there  also, 
not  so  bad,  just  generally  jellied  up,  but  still  too  bad  to 
talk.  And  the  testimony  was  of  little  use. 

The  tender  of  switch-back  number  one  reported  that 
the  Limited  had  passed  him  at  perhaps  a  little  greater 
speed  than  usual — which  was  the  speed  of  a  man's 
walk,  for  trains  crawl  down  the  Devil's  Slide  with  fear 
and  caution — but  not  fast  enough  to  cause  him  to  think 
anything  about  it. 

Hardy,  the  conductor,  testified.    Hardy  said  it  was 


168     ON   THE   IRON   AT    BIG   CLOUD 

the  "  air ; "  that  the  train  began  to  slide  faster  and 
faster  after  the  first  switch-back  was  passed  and  that 
her  speed  kept  on  increasing  up  to  the  moment  that  the 
crash  came.  He  figured  that  it  couldn't  be  anything 
else — just  the  "  air  " — it  wouldn't  work  and  the  con- 
trol of  the  train  was  lost.  That  was  all  he  knew. 

And  while  Regan  swore  and  fumed,  Carleton's 
face  set  grim  and  hard — and  he  waited  for  Dah- 
leen. 

It  was  a  week  before  the  fireman  faced  Carleton 
across  the  super's  desk,  but  when  that  time  came  Carle- 
ton  opened  on  him  straight  from  the  shoulder,  not  even 
a  word  of  sympathy,  not  so  much  as  "  glad  to  see 
you're  out  again,"  just  straight  to  the  point,  hard  and 
quick. 

"  Dahleen,"  he  snapped,  "  I  want  to  know  what 
happened  in  the  cab  that  night,  and  I  want  a  straight 
story.  No  other  kind  of  talking  will  do  you  any  good." 

Dahleen's  face,  white  with  the  pallor  of  his  illness, 
flushed  suddenly  red. 

"  You're  jumping  a  man  pretty  hard,  aren't  you,  Mr. 
Carleton  ?  "  he  said  resentfully. 

"  Maybe  I've  reason  to,"  replied  Carleton.  "  Well, 
I'm  waiting  for  that  story." 

"  There  is  no  story  that  I  know  of,"  said  Dahleen 
evenly.  "  After  we  passed  switch-back  number  one  we 
lost  control  of  the  train — the  '  air  '  wouldn't  work." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

"  You  don't  seem  to,"  retorted  Dahleen,  with  a  set 
jaw. 

"  What  did  you  do  to  stop  her?  " 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       169 

"  What  I  could,"  said  Dahleen,  with  terse  finality. 

Carleton  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  his  fist  crashed  down 
upon  the  desk. 

"  You  are  lying!  "  he  thundered.  "  That  wreck  and 
the  lives  that  are  lost  are  at  your  door,  and  if  I  could 
prove  it !  " — he  shook  his  fist  at  the  fireman.  "  As  it 
is  I  can  only  fire  you  for  violation  of  the  rules.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  Coogan  and  that  he'd  gone  off 
his  head  a  bit,  and  you  are  cur  enough  to  let  the  blame 
go  there  if  you  could,  to  let  me  and  every  other  man 
think  so!" 

Dahleen's  fists  clenched,  and  he  took  a  step  forward. 

"  That's  enough  !  "  he  cried  hoarsely.  "  Enough 
from  you  or  any  other  man !  " 

Carleton  rounded  on  him  more  furiously  than  before. 

"  I've  given  you  a  chance  to  tell  a  straight  story  and 
you  wouldn't.  God  knows  what  you  did  that  night. 
I  believe  you  were  fighting  drunk.  I  believe  that  gash 
in  Coogan's  head  wasn't  from  the  wreck.  If  I  knew 
I'd  fix  you."  He  wrenched  open  a  drawer  of  his  desk, 
whipped  out  a  metal  whisky  flask,  and  shook  it  before 
Dahleen's  eyes.  "  When  you  were  picked  up  this  was 
in  the  pocket  of  your  jumper! " 

The  color  fled  from  Dahleen's  face  leaving  it  whiter 
than  when  he  had  entered  the  room.  He  wet  his  lips 
with  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  All  the  bluster,  all  the  fight 
was  gone.  He  stared  mutely,  a  startled,  frightened 
look  in  his  eyes,  at  the  damning  evidence  in  the  super's 
hand. 

"  Forgotten  about  it,  had  you  ?  "  Carleton  flung  out 
grimly.  "  Well,  have  you  anything  to  say  ?  " 


170     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Dahleen  shook  his  head. 

"  Ain't  anything  to  say,  is  there  ?  " — his  voice  was 
low  with  just  a  hint  of  the  former  defiance.  "  It's 
mine,  but  you  can't  prove  anything.  You  can't  prove  I 
drank  it.  D'ye  think  I'd  be  fool  enough  to  do  anything 
but  keep  my  mouth  shut  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  can't  prove  it  " — Carleton's  voice  was  deadly 
cold.  '  You're  out !  I'll  give  you  twelve  hours  to  get 
out  of  the  mountains.  The  boys,  for  Coogan's  sake 
alone  if  for  no  other,  would  tear  you  to  pieces  if  they 
knew  the  story.  No  one  knows  it  yet  but  the  man  who 
found  this  in  your  pocket  and  myself.  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  you  again  what  I  think  of  you — get  out! " 

Dahleen,  without  a  word,  swung  slowly  on  his  heel 
and  started  for  the  door. 

"  Wait !  "  said  Carleton  suddenly.  "  Here's  a  pass 
East  for  you.  I  don't  want  your  blood  on  my  hands, 
as  I  would  have  if  Coogan's  friends,  and  that's  every 
last  soul  out  here,  got  hold  of  you.  You've  got  twelve 
hours — after  that  they'll  know — to  set  Coogan 
straight." 

Dahleen  hesitated,  came  back,  took  the  slip  of  paper 
with  a  mirthless,  half-choked  laugh,  turned  again,  and 
the  door  closed  behind  him. 

Dahleen  was  out. 

Carleton  kept  his  word — twelve  hours — and  then 
from  the  division  rose  a  cry  like  the  cry  of  savage 
beasts ;  but  Regan  was  like  a  madman. 

"  Curse  him !  "  he  swore  bitterly,  breaking  into  a 
seething  torrent  of  oaths.  "  What  did  you  let  him  go 
for,  Carleton?  You'd  no  business  to.  You  should 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE       171 

have  held  him  until  Coogan  could  talk,  and  then  we'd 
have  had  him." 

"  Tommy  " — Carleton  laid  his  hand  quietly  on  the 
master  mechanic's  shoulder — "  we're  too  young  out  in 
this  country  for  much  law.  I  don't  think  Coogan 
knows  or  ever  will  know  again  what  happened  in  the 
cab  that  night.  The  doctors  don't  seem  quite  able  to 
call  the  turn  on  him  themselves,  so  they've  said  to  you 
and  said  to  me.  But  whether  he  does  or  not,  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  as  far  as  Dahleen  goes.  It  would 
have  been  murder  to  keep  him  here.  And  if  Coogan 
ever  can  talk  he'll  never  put  a  mate  in  bad  no  matter 
what  the  consequences  to  himself.  There's  nothing 
against  Dahleen  except  that  he  had  liquor  in  his  posses- 
sion while  on  duty.  That's  what  I  fired  him  for — that's 
the  only  story  that's  gone  out  of  this  office.  You  and  I 
and  the  rest  are  free  to  put  the  construction  on  it  that 
suits  us  best,  and  there  it  ends.  If  I  was  wrong  to 
let  him  go,  I  was  wrong.  I  did  what  I  thought  was 
right — that's  all  I  can  ever  do." 

"  Mabbe,"  growled  Regan,  "  mabbe;  but,  damn  him, 
he  ought  to  be  murdered.  I'd  like  to  have  had  'em 
done  it !  It's  that  smash  on  the  head  put  Coogan  to  the 
bad.  You're  right  about  one  thing,  I  guess,  he'll  never 
be  the  same  Coogan  again." 

And  in  a  way  this  was  so ;  in  another  it  wasn't.  It 
was  not  the  wound  that  was  to  blame,  the  doctors  were 
positive  about  that;  but  Coogan,  it  was  pitifully  evi- 
dent, was  not  the  same.  Physically,  at  the  end  of  a 
month,  he  left  the  hospital  apparently  as  well  as  he  had 
ever  been  in  his  life;  but  mentally,  somewhere,  a  cog 


172     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

had  slipped.  His  brain  seemed  warped  and  weakened, 
simple  as  a  child's  in  its  workings ;  his  memory  fogged 
and  dazed,  full  of  indefinite,  intangible  snatches,  vague, 
indeterminate  glimpses  of  his  life  before.  One  thing 
seemed  to  cling  to  him,  to  predominate,  to  sway  him — 
the  Devil's  Slide. 

Regan  and  Carleton  talked  to  him,  trying  to  guide 
his  thoughts  and  stimulate  his  memory. 

'  You  remember  you  used  to  drive  an  engine,  don't 
you,  Chick  ?  "  asked  Carleton. 

"  Engine?  "  Coogan  nodded.  "  Yes;  in  the  Devil's 
Slide." 

"  5°5>"  said  Regan  quickly.    "  You  know  old  505." 

Coogan  shook  his  head. 

Carleton  tried  another  tack. 

'*  You  were  in  a  bad  accident,  Coogan,  one  night. 
You  were  in  the  cab  of  the  engine  when  she  went  to 
smash.  Do  you  remember  that  ?  " 

"  The  smash  was  on  the  Devil's  Slide,"  said  Coogan. 

"  That's  it,"  cried  Carleton.  "  I  knew  you'd  remem- 
ber." 

"  They're  always  there,"  said  Coogan  simply,  "  al- 
ways there.  It  is  a  bad  track.  I'm  a  railroad  man  and 
I  know.  It's  not  properly  guarded.  I'm  going  to  work 
there  and  take  care  of  it." 

"  Work  there  ?  "  said  Regan,  the  tears  almost  in  his 
eyes.  "  What  kind  of  work  ?  What  do  you  want  to 
do,  Chick?" 

"  Just  work  there,"  said  Coogan.  "  Take  care  of  the 
Devil's  Slide." 

The  super  and  the  master  mechanic  looked  at  each 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      173 

other — and  averted  their  eyes.  Then  they  took  Coogan 
up  to  his  boarding-house,  where  he  had  moved  after 
Annie  and  the  little  one  died. 

"  He'll  never  put  his  finger  on  a  throttle  again," 
said  Regan  with  a  choke  in  his  voice,  as  they  came  out. 
"  The  best  man  that  ever  pulled  a  latch,  the  best  man 
that  ever  drew  a  pay-check  on  the  Hill  Division.  It's 
hell,  Carleton,  that's  what  it  is.  I  don't  think  he  really 
knew  you  or  me.  He  don't  seem  to  remember  much  of 
anything,  though  he's  natural  enough  and  able  enough 
to  take  care  of  himself  in  all  other  ways.  Just  kind  of 
simple-like.  It's  queer  the  way  that  Devil's  Slide  has 
got  him,  what?  We  can't  let  him  go  out  there." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  remembers  Annie,"  said  Carleton. 
"  I  was  afraid  to  ask  him.  I  didn't  know  what  effect 
it  might  have.  No;  we  can't  let  him  go  out  on  the 
Devil's  Slide." 

But  the  doctors  said  yes.  They  went  further  and 
said  it  was  about  the  only  chance  he  had.  The  thing 
was  on  his  mind.  It  was  better  to  humor  him,  and 
that,  with  the  outdoor  mountain  life,  in  time  might 
bring  him  around  again. 

And  so,  while  Regan  growled  and  swore,  and  Carle- 
ton  knitted  his  brows  in  perplexed  protest,  the  doctors 
had  their  way — and  Coogan,  Chick  Coogan,  went  to 
the  Devil's  Slide.  Officially,  he  was  on  the  pay-roll  as 
a  section  hand;  but  Millrae,  the  section  boss,  had  his 
own  orders. 

"  Let  Coogan  alone.  Let  him  do  what  he  likes,  only 
see  that  he  doesn't  come  to  any  harm,"  wired  the  super. 

And   Coogan,   when   Millrae  asked  him   what  he 


174     ON    THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

wanted  to  do,  answered  simply :  "  I'm  going  to  take 
care  of  the  Devil's  Slide." 

"  All  right,  Chick,"  the  section  boss  agreed  cheerily. 
"  It's  up  to  you.  Fire  ahead." 

At  first  no  one  understood,  perhaps  even  at  the  end 
no  one  quite  understood — possibly  Coogan  least  of  all. 
He  may  have  done  some  good — or  he  may  not.  In  time 
they  came  to  call  him  the  Guardian  of  the  Devil's  Slide 
— not  slightingly,  but  as  strong  men  talk,  defiant  of 
ridicule,  with  a  gruff  ring  of  assertion  in  their  tones 
that  brooked  no  question. 

Up  and  down,  down  and  up,  two  miles  east,  two 
miles  west,  Coogan  patroled  the  Devil's  Slide,  and 
never  a  weakened  rail,  a  sunken  tie,  a  loosened  spike 
escaped  him — he  may  have  done  some  good,  or  he  may 
not. 

He  slept  here  and  there  in  one  of  the  switch-back 
tender's  shanties,  moved  and  governed  by  no  other  con- 
sideration than  fatigue — day  and  night  were  as  things 
apart.  He  ate  with  them,  too;  and  scrupulously  he 
paid  his  footing.  Twenty-five  cents  for  a  meal,  twenty- 
five  cents  for  a  bunk,  or  a  blanket  on  the  floor.  They 
took  his  money  because  he  forced  it  upon  them,  furi- 
ously angry  at  a  hint  of  refusal;  but  mostly  the  coin 
would  be  slipped  back  unnoticed  into  the  pocket  of 
Coogan's  coat — poor  men  and  rough  they  were,  noth- 
ing of  veneer,  nothing  of  polish,  grimy,  overalled, 
horny-fisted  toilers,  their  hearts  were  big  if  their  purses 
weren't. 

At  all  hours,  in  the  early  dawn,  at  midday  or  late 
afternoon,  the  train  crews  and  the  engine  crews  on  pas- 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      175 

sengers,  specials  and  freights,  passed  Coogan  up  and 
down,  always  walking  with  his  head  bent  forward,  his 
eyes  fastened  on  the  right  of  way — passed  with  a 
cheery  hail  and  the  flirt  of  a  hand  from  cab,  caboose, 
or  the  ornate  tail  of  a  garish  Pullman.  And  to  the 
tourists  he  came  to  be  more  of  an  attraction  than  the 
scenic  grandeur  of  the  Rockies  themselves ;  they  stared 
from  the  observation  car  and  listened,  with  a  running 
fire  of  wondering  comment,  as  the  brass-buttoned, 
swelled-with-importance,  colored  porters  told  the  story, 
until  at  last  to  have  done  the  Rockies  and  have  missed 
the  Guardian  of  the  Devil's  Slide  was  to  have  done 
them  not  at  all.  It  was  natural  enough,  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary  ministers  to  and  arouses  the  public's 
curiosity.  Not  very  nice  perhaps,  no — but  natural. 
The  railroad  men  didn't  like  it,  and  that  was  nat- 
ural, too;  but  their  feelings  or  opinions,  in  the  very 
nature  of  things,  had  little  effect  one  way  or  the 
other. 

Coogan  grew  neither  better  nor  worse.  The  months 
passed,  and  he  grew  neither  better  nor  worse.  Winter 
came,  and,  with  the  trestle  that  went  out  in  the  big 
storm  that  year,  Coogan  went  into  Division  for  the 
last  time,  went  over  the  Great  Divide,  the  same  simple, 
broken-minded  Coogan  that  had  begun  his  self-ap- 
pointed task  in  the  spring — he  may  have  done  some 
good,  or  he  may  not.  They  found  him  after  two  or 
three  days,  and  sent  him  back  to  Big  Cloud. 

"  He'd  have  chosen  that  himself  if  he  could  have 
chosen,"  said  Carleton  soberly.  "  God  knows  what  the 
end  would  have  been.  The  years  would  have  been  all 


176     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

alike,  he'd  never  have  got  his  mind  back.  It's  all  for 
the  best,  what  ?  " 

Regan  did  not  answer.  Philosophy  and  the  master 
mechanic's  heart  did  not  always  measure  things  alike. 

The  Brotherhood  took  charge  of  the  arrangements, 
and  Coogan's  funeral  was  the  biggest  funeral  Big 
Cloud  ever  had.  Everybody  wanted  to  march,  so  they 
held  the  service  late  in  the  afternoon  and  closed  down 
the  shops  at  half-past  four :  and  the  shop  hands,  from 
the  boss  fitter  to  the  water  boy,  turned  out  to  the  last 
man — and  so  did  every  one  else  in  town. 

It  was  getting  dark  and  already  supper  time  when  it 
was  over,  but  Carleton,  who  had  left  some  unfinished 
work  on  his  desk,  went  back  to  his  office  instead  of 
going  home.  He  lighted  the  lamp,  put  on  the  chimney, 
but  the  match  was  still  burning  between  his  fingers 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  man,  with  his  hat  pulled 
far  down  over  his  face,  stepped  in  and  closed  it  behind 
him. 

Carleton  whirled  around,  the  match  dropped  to  the 
floor,  and  he  leaned  forward  over  his  desk,  a  hard  look 
settling  on  his  face.  The  man  had  pushed  back  his 
hat.  It  was  Dahleen,  Coogan's  fireman,  Jim  Dahleen. 

For  a  moment  neither  man  spoke.  Bitter  words  rose 
to  Carleton's  tongue,  but  something  in  the  other's  face 
checked  and  held  them  back.  It  was  Dahleen  who 
spoke  first. 

"  I  heard  about  Chick — that  he'd  gone  out,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  I  don't  suppose  it  did  him  any  good,  but  I 
kind  of  had  to  chip  in  on  the  good-by — Chick  and  me 
used  to  be  pretty  thick.  I  saw  you  come  down  here 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE    DEVIL'S    SLIDE      177 

and  I  followed  you.  Don't  stare  at  me  like  that,  you'd 
have  done  the  same.  Have  you  got  that  flask  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Carleton  answered  mechanically,  and  as 
mechanically  produced  it  from  the  drawer  of  his 
desk. 

"  Ever  examine  it  particularly  ?  " 

"Examine  it?" 

"  I  guess  that  answers  my  question.  I  was  afraid 
you  might,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  you  for  it  that  day, 
only  I  thought  you'd  think  it  mighty  funny,  refuse, 
and  well — well,  get  to  looking  it  over  on  your  own 
hook.  Will  you  give  it  here  for  a  minute  ?  " 

Carleton  handed  it  over  silently. 

Dahleen  took  it,  pulled  off  the  lower  half  that 
served  as  drinking  cup,  laid  his  finger  on  the  inside 
rim,  and  returned  it  to  the  super. 

Carleton  moved  nearer  to  the  light — then  his  face 
paled.  It  was  Coogaris  flask!  The  inscription,  a  little 
dulled,  in  fine  engraving,  was  still  plain  enough.  '  To 
Chick  from  Jim,  on  the  occasion  of  his  wedding." 
Carleton's  hand  was  trembling  as  he  set  it  down. 

"  My  God !  "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  It  was  Coogan 
who  was  drunk  that  night — not  you." 

"  I  figured  that's  the  way  you'd  read  it,  you  or  any 
other  railroad  man,"  said  Dahleen.  "  It  was  him  or  me 
and  one  of  us  drunk,  in  the  eyes  of  any  of  the  boys  on 
the  road,  from  the  minute  that  flask  showed  up.  There 
was  only  one  thing  would  have  made  you  believe 
different,  and  I  couldn't  tell  you — then.  I'd  have  taken 
the  same  stand  you  did.  But  you're  wrong.  Coogan 
wasn't  drunk  that  night — he  never  touched  a  drop.  I 


178     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

wouldn't  be  telling  you  this  now,  if  he  had,  would 
I?" 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Carleton. 

Dahleen  took  the  chair  beside  the  desk,  and  resting 
his  feet  on  the  window-sill  stared  out  at  the  lights 
twinkling  below  him. 

"  Yes,  I  gave  him  the  flask,"  he  said  slowly,  as 
though  picking  up  the  thread  of  a  story,  "  for  a  wed- 
ding present.  The  day  he  came  back  to  his  run  after 
the  little  woman  and  the  baby  died  he  had  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  he  handed  it  to  me.  'I'm  afraid  of  it, 
Jimmy/  he  said.  That  was  all,  just  that — only  he 
looked  at  me.  Then  he  got  down  out  of  the  cab  to 
oil  round,  me  still  holding  it  in  my  hand  for  the  words 
kind  of  hit  me — they  meant  a  whole  lot.  Well,  before 
he  came  back,  I  lifted  up  my  seat  and  chucked  it  down 
in  the  box  underneath.  I  don't  want  to  make  a  long 
story  of  this.  You  know  how  he  took  to  brooding. 
Sometimes  he  wouldn't  say  a  word  from  one  end  of 
the  run  to  the  other.  And  once  in  a  while  he  seemed  to 
act  a  little  queer.  I  didn't  think  much  of  it  and  I  didn't 
say  anything  to  anybody,  figuring  it  would  wear  off. 
When  we  pulled  out  of  Big  Cloud  the  night  of  the 
wreck  I  didn't  see  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  about 
him,  I'd  kind  of  got  used  to  him  by  then  and  if  there 
was  any  difference  I  didn't  notice  it.  He  never  said 
a  word  all  the  way  out  until  we  hit  the  summit  of  the 
Devil's  Slide  and  started  down.  I  had  the  fire-box 
door  open  and  was  throwing  coal  when  he  says  so  sud- 
den as  almost  to  make  me  drop  my  shovel : 

"  '  Jimmy,  do  you  know  what  night  this  is  ?  ' 


GUARDIAN    OF   THE   DEVIL'S    SLIDE      179 

"  *  Sure/  says  I,  never  thinking,  '  it's  Thursday/ 

"  He  laughed  kind  of  softlike  to  himself. 

"  '  It's  my  wedding  night,  Jimmy/  he  says.  '  My 
wedding  night,  and  we're  going  to  celebrate/ 

"  The  light  from  the  fire-box  was  full  on  his  face, 
and  he  had  the  queerest  look  you  ever  saw  on  a  man. 
He  was  white  and  his  eyes  were  staring  and  he  was 
pushing  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  rocking  in  his 
seat.  I  was  scart.  I  thought  for  a  minute  he  was 
going  to  faint,  then  I  remembered  that  whisky  and 
jumped  for  my  side  of  the  cab,  opened  the  seat  and 
snatched  it  up.  I  went  back  to  him  with  it  in  my  hand. 
I  don't  think  he  ever  saw  it — I  know  he  didn't.  He 
was  laughing  that  soft  laugh  again,  kind  of  as  though 
he  was  crooning,  and  he  reached  out  his  hand  and 
pushed  me  away. 

"  '  We're  going  to  celebrate,  Jimmy/  says  he  again. 
'  We're  going  to  celebrate.  It's  my  wedding  night/ 

"I  felt  the  speed  quicken  a  bit,  we  were  on  the 
Slide  then,  you  know,  and  I  saw  his  fingers  tightening 
on  the  throttle.  Then  it  got  me,  and  my  heart  went 
into  my  mouth — Chick  was  clean  off  his  head.  I 
slipped  the  flask  into  my  pocket,  and  tried  to  coax  his 
hands  away  from  the  throttle. 

" '  Let  me  take  her  a  spell,  Chick/  says  I,  thinking 
my  best  chance  was  to  humor  him. 

"  He  threw  me  off  like  I  was  a  plaything.  Then 
I  tried  to  pull  him  away  and  he  smashed  me  one  be- 
tween the  eyes  and  sent  me  to  the  floor.  All  the  time 
we  was  going  faster  and  faster.  I  tackled  him  again, 
but  I  might  as  well  have  been  a  baby,  and  then — then— ^ 


i8o     ON    THE    IRON   AT    BIG   CLOUD 

well,  that  wound  in  his  head  came  from  a  long-handled 
union-wrench  I  grabbed  out  of  the  tool  box.  He 
went  down  like  a  felled  ox — but  it  was  too  late.  Be- 
fore I  could  reach  a  lever  we  were  in  splinters." 

Dahleen  stopped.  Carleton  never  stirred,  he  was 
leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  his  face  strained,  eyes  intently  fastened  on 
the  other. 

Dahleen  fumbled  a  second  with  his  watch  chain, 
twisting  it  around  his  fingers,  then  he  went  on : 

c<  While  I  laid  in  the  hospital  I  turned  the  thing  over 
in  my  mind  pretty  often,  long  before  the  doctors 
thought  I  knew  my  own  name  again,  and  I  figured  that, 
if  it  was  ever  known,  old  Coogan  was  down  and  out 
for  fair  even  if  when  he  got  better  his  head  turned  out 
all  right  again,  because  he  wouldn't  be  ever  trusted  in  a 
cab  under  any  circumstances,  you  understand?  If  he 
didn't  come  out  straight  why  that  ended  it,  of  course; 
but  I  had  it  in  my  mind  that  it  was  only  what  they 
call  a  temporary  aberration.  I  couldn't  queer  him  if 
that  was  all,  could  I  ?  So  I  said  to  myself,  '  Jimmy,  all 
you  know  is  that  the  "  air  "  wouldn't  work.'  That's 
what  I  told  you  that  day;  and  then  you  sprang  that 
flask  on  me.  You  were  right,  I  had  forgotten  it. 
Whisky  in  the  cab  on  the  night  of  an  accident  is  pretty 
near  an  open  and  shut  game.  It  was  him  or  me,  and 
I  couldn't  tell  you  the  story  then  without  doing  Coogan 
cold,  but  Coogan's  gone  now  and  it  can't  hurt  him. 
That's  all." 

The  tick  of  the  clock  on  the  wall,  the  click  of  the 
sounder  from  the  dispatcher's  room  next  door  were 


GUARDIAN    OF    THE   DEVIL'S    SLIDE      181 

the  only  sounds  for  a  long  minute,  then  Carleton's 
chair  scraped  and  he  stood  up  and  put  out  his  hand. 

"  Dahleen,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I'd  give  a  good  deal 
to  be  as  white  a  man  as  you  are." 

Dahleen  shook  his  head. 

"  Any  one  would  have  done  it  for  Coogan,"  he  said. 


VIII 
THE  BLOOD  OF  KINGS 

THERE  never  was,  and  there  isn't  now,  anything 
elusive  about  the  Hill  Division,  unless  you  get  to  talk- 
ing about  the  mileage — when  you  strike  the  mileage 
you  strike  deep  water,  and  the  way  of  it  is  this.  Most 
things  that  are  big  and  vital  and  enduring  develop 
with  the  years  to  their  own  maturity,  and  with  maturity 
comes  perfection — as  nearly  as  anything  is  perfect. 
When  the  last  rail  that  proclaimed  man's  mastery  of 
the  Rockies  and  the  Sierras  an  accomplished  fact  was 
spiked  to  the  ties  with  much  ceremony  and  more  eclat, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  somewhat  wobbly  and  uncer- 
tain blows  with  which  the  silk-hatted,  very-important- 
national-personage  performed  this  crowning  act,  while 
the  rough-and-readys  whose  toil  and  sweat  and  grime 
and  blood  had  bought  the  miles  the  orators  were  eulo- 
gizing, being  no  longer  of  the  elect,  looked  on  from  a 
respectful  distance — when  all  this  was  done  the  Hill 
Division,  even  then,  was  no  more  than  the  rough  draft 
of  a  masterpiece. 

In  the  years  that  followed  came  the  pruning  and 
the  changes,  the  smoothing  and  the  toning  down — tun- 
nels bored  through  the  mountain-sides  lessened  the 
grades  and  lopped  off  winding  miles  around  projecting 
spurs;  trestles  with  long  embankment  approaches 

182 


THE   BLOOD    OF   KINGS  183 

added  their  quota  to  this  much-to-be-desired  result; 
while  in  the  foothills,  instead  of  circling  around  and 
around,  to  the  right  and  the  left  and  the  left  and  the 
right  of  an  endless  procession  of  buttes,  the  buttes 
themselves  came  to  be  bisected  with  mathematical  pre- 
cision. All  told,  many  miles,  very  many  miles,  have 
been  wiped  out  in  this  fashion — the  elusive  part  of  it 
is  that,  measured  in  the  dollars  and  cents  paid  by  the 
tourists  for  transportation  and  the  shippers  and  con- 
signees for  freight  hauls,  the  line  is  just  as  long  as 
ever  it  was!  And  it  would  appear  that  a  good  deal 
of  money  had  been  spent  with  nothing  to  show  for  it; 
but  then  against  this  is  the  fact  that  the  directors  down 
East  were  never  rated  as  imminent  or  near-imminent 
subjects  for  a  lunacy  commission.  The  mileage  is 
elusive — let  it  go  at  that. 

For  the  rest,  the  right  of  way  from  Big  Cloud,  the 
divisional  point,  just  East  of  the  mighty  blue-blurred, 
snow-capped  range  that  towers  to  the  skyline  North 
and  South — from  there  to  the  rolling,  undulating 
country  that  reaches  West  from  the  base  of  the  Sierras, 
the  Hill  Division  is,  without  question,  the  most  marvel- 
ous piece  of  track  ever  conceived  by  man,  and  it  stands 
a  perpetual  and  enduring  monument  to  the  brains  and 
the  genius,  ay,  and  the  manhood,  too,  of  those  who 
built  it. 

Such  is  the  Hill  Division.  You  who  know  the 
Rockies  know  it  for  the  grandeur  of  its  scenery,  know 
it  for  the  glory  of  its  conquest  over  obstacles  seemingly 
insurmountable ;  but  there  is  another  side  that  you  may 
not  know,  a  side  that  the  maps  and  plans  and  blue- 


184     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

prints  and  the  railroad  folders  and  the  windows  of  the 
observation  cars,  big  as  they  are,  do  not  show — and 
that  side  is  the  human  side.  It  is  full  of  tears  and 
laughter,  full  of  sorrow  and  joy,  of  dangers  and  death 
and  mistakes  and  triumph — its  history  would  fill  many 
pages,  but  it  is  a  history  that  will  never  be  written,  for 
the  generals  and  the  rank  and  file  of  its  army  have 
fought  their  battles  without  the  blare  of  trumpets, 
have  done  their  work  and  their  duty  as  they  saw  it, 
simply  and  with  few  words,  without  thought  of  per- 
sonal profit  and,  much  less,  of  fame.  They  tell  their 
own  stories  amongst  themselves,  and  they  hold  in 
honor  those  entitled  thereto — which  is  a  meed  beyond 
any  recognition  of  governments  or  kings  or  princi- 
palities, because  it  is  the  tribute  of  man  to  man,  without 
glamor  and  without  pretense.  If  you  are  a  man  as 
they  measure  men,  they  will  tell  you  the  stories,  too; 
and,  if  you  care  to  smoke,  they  will  offer  you  their 
black  plugs  with  the  heart-shaped  tin  tags  that  their 
favorite  manufacturer  imbeds  therein  and,  further, 
they  will  hand  you  their  clasp  knives  with  which  to 
slice  it.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  understand  that  you 
are  honored  above  most  men,  and  you  will  be  becom- 
ingly humble  and  will  listen.  But  if  this,  through 
circumstance  and  misfortune,  has  never  been  your  lot, 
then,  here  and  there,  inadequately  and  meagerly,  you 
may  run  across,  in  print,  a  stray  breath  from  the  Hill 
Division — this  is  a  case  in  print — the  story  of  "  King  " 
Gilleen. 

Gilleen  was  a  man  you  would  never  pass  in  a  crowd 
without  turning  your  head  to  look  at  him  a  second 


THE    BLOOD   OF    KINGS  185 

time,  not  even  in  a  big  crowd,  for  nature  had  dealt 
with  Gilleen  generously — or  otherwise — whichever  way 
it  pleases  you  best  to  consider  it.  He  had  red  hair  of 
a  shade  that  might  be  classified  as  brilliant,  but  which 
Regan,  the  master  mechanic,  described  in  metaphor. 
Said  Regan :  '  You  could  see  that  head  a  mile  away 
on  the  other  side  of  a  curve  in  a  blizzard  at  night  when 
he  pokes  it  out  of  the  cab  window.  You'll  never  get 
Gilleen  on  the  carpet  because  his  headlight's  out, 
what  ? "  Certainly,  at  any  rate,  Gilleen's  hair  was 
undeniably  red.  He  had  blue  eyes,  and  a  very  small 
nose  which,  for  all  that,  was,  next  to  his  hair,  the  most 
prominent  feature  he  possessed — small  noses  with  a 
slight  up-cant  to  the  tip  are  pronounced,  mere  size  to 
the  contrary.  His  face  was  freckled  and  so  were  his 
hands;  also,  he  was  no  small  chunk  of  a  man,  not  so 
very  tall,  but  the  shoulders  on  him  were  something  to 
envy  if  you  were  friendly  with  him,  or  to  respect  if 
you  were  not.  That  was  Gilleen,  all  except  the  fact 
that  he  admitted  with  emphasis  to  the  blood  of  some 
wild  Irish  race  of  kings  coursing  through  his  veins. 
This  last  point  was  never  established — every  one  took 
Gilleen's  word  for  it,  that  is  every  one  but  Regan,  who 
was  Irish  himself  and,  more  pertinent  still,  Gilleen's 
direct  superior.  On  this  point  Regan,  who  was  never 
averse  to  doing  it,  could  get  a  rise  out  of  Gilleen 
quicker  than  the  bite  of  a  hungry  trout. 

"  By  Christmas,"  Gilleen  would  sputter  on  such  oc- 
casions, "  I'll  have  you  know  I'm  no  liar,  an'  if  'twere 
not  for  the  missus  an'  the  six  kids  " — here  Gilleen 
would  always  stop  to  count,  owing  to  a  possible  arrival 


186     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

since  the  last  clash,  realizing  that  any  slip  would  be 
instantly  and  mercilessly  turned  against  him  by  the 
grinning  master  mechanic — "  if  'twere  not  for  them, 
Regan,  you  listen  to  me,  I'd  bash  your  face  an'  then 
ram  the  measly  job  you  give  me  down  your  throat,  I 
would  that !  " 

"Well,"  Regan  would  return,  "when  you  get  to 
sitting  on  a  dinky,  gilded  throne,  sunk  to  the  crown- 
sheet  in  the  bogs  though  it  will  be,  I'd  ask  no  more 
nor  as  much  from  your  hands  as  you  get  from  mine — 
which  is  more  than  your  deserts.  Who  but  me  would 
do  as  much  for  you?  You  ought  to  be  back  wiping. 
I've  thought  some  seriously  of  it,  h'm?  Six,  is  it 
now  ? — well,  it's  a  grand  race !  " 

Whereupon  Gilleen  would  say  hot  words  and  say 
them  fervently,  while  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  master 
mechanic. 

"  I'll  show  you  some  day,  Regan,"  was  his  final 
word.  "  I'll  show  you  what  kind  of  a  race  it  is,  an' 
don't  you  forget  it !  " 

All  of  which  is  neither  very  interesting  nor  in  any 
degree  witty — it  simply  shows  where  Gilleen's  nick- 
name came  from.  Everybody  on  the  division  called 
him  "  King  " — not  to  his  face,  they  do  now,  but  they 
didn't  then.  Queer  the  way  a  little  thing  like  that  acts 
on  a  man  sometimes.  Gilleen  was  well  enough  liked 
in  a  way,  but  no  one  ever  really  took  him  seriously  in 
anything.  Associate  a  man  with  a  joke  and  hencefor- 
ward and  forever  after,  usually,  the  two  are  insepara- 
ble. He  may  have  aspirations,  ambitions,  what  you 
will,  but  he  is  given  no  credit  for  having  them — with 


THE    BLOOD    OF    KINGS  187 

Gilleen  it  was  that  way.  Just  Gilleen,  "  King  "  Gilleen 
— and  a  grin. 

The  Lord  only  knows  what  possessed  Gilleen  to 
adhere  with  such  stout-hearted  loyalty  to  his  ancestors 
— you  may  put  an  interrogation  mark  after  that  last 
word,  if  you  like — it  began  with  perhaps  no  more 
than  a  boyish  boast  when  his  official  connection  with 
the  system  was  no  further  advanced  than  to  the  degree 
of  holding  down  the  job  of  assistant  boiler-washer  in 
the  roundhouse.  The  more  they  guyed  him  the  more 
stubbornly  he  stuck — it  was  a  matter  worth  fighting 
for,  and  Gilleen  fought.  He  threw  pounds,  reach,  and 
other  advantages  to  the  winds  and  took  on  anybody 
and  everybody.  By  the  time  he  had  moved  up  to  firing 
he  had  fought  all  who  cared  to  fight,  who  were  not  a 
few;  and  when,  following  that  in  the  due  course  of 
promotion,  he  got  his  engine,  he  had  by  blows,  not 
argument,  established  his  assertion  outwardly  at  least. 
At  a  safe  distance  the  division,  remembering  broken 
noses  and  missing  teeth  and  no  longer  denying  him 
his  royal  blood,  gave  him  his  way,  smiled  tolerantly  in 
self-solace  and  called  him  "  nutty." 

Regan,  of  course,  still  guyed — but  Regan  was  mas- 
ter mechanic.  Not  that  he  did  it  by  virtue  of  the  im- 
munity his  official  position  afforded  him,  he  never  gave 
that  a  thought.  He  did  it  because  he  was  Regan, 
and  Regan  was  built  that  way.  He  could  no  more 
forego  the  chance  of  a  laugh  or  an  inward  chuckle 
than  he  could  forego  the  act  of  breathing — and 
live.  A  joke  was  a  joke,  just  fun  with  him,  that 
was  all. 


1 88     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

But  with  Gilleen  it  was  different.  Being  unable  to 
use  his  fists  as  was  his  wont,  and  being  possessed  of  no 
other  safety-valve,  the  pressure  mounted  steadily  until 
it  registered  a  point  on  his  mental  gauge  that  spoke 
eloquently  of  trouble  to  come. 

And  so  matters  stood  when,  following  a  rather  dull 
summer,  the  fall  business  opened  with  a  rush  and  a 
roar.  Things  moved  with  a  jump,  and  the  rails 
hummed  under  a  constant  stream  of  traffic  east  and 
west.  Here,  at  least,  was  no  joke — a  rush  on  the  Hill 
Division,  single-track,  through  the  mountains,  never 
was.  A  month  of  it,  and  every  one  from  car-tink  to 
superintendent  began  to  show  the  effects  of  the  strain. 
It  was  double  up  everywhere,  extra  duty,  extra  tricks. 
The  dispatchers  caught  their  share  of  it  and  their 
eyes  grew  red  and  heavy  under  the  lamps  at  night,  and 
the  heads  of  the  day-men  ached  as  they  figured  a 
series  of  meeting  points  that  had  no  beginning  and  no 
end ;  but,  bad  as  it  was  for  the  men  on  the  keys,  it  was 
worse  for  some  of  those  in  the  cabs.  Schedules  went 
to  smash.  Perishables  and  flyers  were  given  the  best 
of  it — the  rights  of  the  rest  were  the  sidings.  It  was 
a  case  of  crawl  along,  sneak  from  one  to  the  other,  with 
layout  after  layout,  until  the  ordinary  length  of  a  day's 
duty  lapped  over  into  fifteen-hour  stretches  and  some- 
times to  twenty-four.  Sleep,  what  they  could  get  of 
it,  the  engine  crews  snatched  bolt  upright  in  their  seats 
while  they  waited  for  Number  One's  headlight  to  shoot 
streaming  out  of  the  East,  or  nodded  until  roused  by 
the  roar  and  thunder  of  a  flying  freight,  cars  and  cars 
of  it  crammed  with  first-class  ratings,  streaking  East, 


THE    BLOOD    OF    KINGS  189 

as  it  hurtled  by  with  insolent  disregard  for  every 
mortal  thing  on  earth. 

Maybe  Gilleen  got  a  little  more  of  it  than  any  one 
else  on  the  throttles,  maybe  he  did — or  maybe  he  didn't. 
Gilleen  thought  he  did  anyhow,  and  naturally  he  put  it 
down  to  Regan's  account.  Regan  was  head  of  the 
motive  power  department  of  the  Hill  Division — there 
was  no  one  else  to  put  it  down  to.  It  was  Regan  or 
imagination.  Gilleen,  not  being  strong  on  imagin- 
ation, did  not  debate  the  question — he  let  it  go  at 
Regan. 

In  from  one  run,  shot  out  on  another — that  was 
Gilleen's  schedule.  The  little  woman  in  the  little  house 
uptown  off  Main  street  got  to  be  mostly  a  memory  to 
Gilleen,  and  as  for  the  six  brick-headed  scions  of  his 
kingly  race  he  came  to  wonder  if  they  really  existed 
at  all. 

Things  boomed  and  hummed  on  the  Hill  Division, 
and  while  everybody  on  it  snarled  and  swore  and 
nagged  at  each  other,  as  weary,  worn-out,  dropping- 
with-fatigue  men  will  do,  the  smiles  broadened  on  the 
lips  and  spread  over  the  faces  of  the  directors  down 
East,  as  they  rubbed  their  palms  beneficently,  ex- 
pectantly, scenting  extra  dividends  and  soaring 
stock. 

It  was  noon  one  day  when  Gilleen,  with  a  trailing 
string  of  slewing  freights  behind  him,  pulled  into  the 
Big  Cloud  yards,  uncoupled,  backed  down  the  spur, 
crossed  the  'table,  and  ran  into  the  roundhouse.  As  he 
swung  from  the  gangway,  Regan  came  hurrying  in 
through  the  engine  doors  of  Gilleen's  pit  from  the 


190     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

direction  of  headquarters,  and  walked  up  to  the 
engineer. 

"  Gilleen,"  said  he  briskly,  "  you'll  have  to  take  out 
Special  Eighty-three.  1603*8  ready  with  a  full  head 
on  pit  two." 

"What's  that?"  snapped  Gilleen.  "Take  out  a 
special  now?  "  You  know  damn  well  I'm  just  in  from 
a  run.  I'm  tired.  You'll  rub  it  in  once  too  often, 
Regan." 

"We're  all  tired,  aren't  we?"  returned  the  master 
mechanic  tartly.  "  Do  you  think  you're  the  only  one? 
As  for  rubbing  it  in,  you'd  better  draw  your  fire,  my 
bucko.  There's  no  rubbing  in  being  done  except  in 
your  eye!  Anyhow,  that's  enough  talk.  Special 
Eighty-three's  carded  on  rush  orders  from  down 
East,  and  she's  been  in  here  an  hour  now." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  let  the  crew  that  brought  her 
in  keep  goin'  then  ?  "  snarled  Gilleen.  It  was  a  fool 
question  and  he  knew  it;  but,  as  he  had  said,  he  was 
tired,  and  his  temper,  never  angelic,  was  now  pretty 
well  on  edge. 

Regan  glared  at  him  a  moment  angrily.  Regan,  too, 
was  tired  and  irritable,  harassed  beyond  the  limit  that 
most  men  are  harassed.  The  demand  upon  the  motive 
power  department  for  men  and  engines  had  kept  him 
up  more  than  one  night  trying  to  figure  out  a  prob- 
lem that  was  well-nigh  impossible. 

"  Let  'em  go  on !  "  he  snorted.  "  You  know  well 
enough  I  haven't  anything  on  the  Prairie  Division  men. 
You  know  that — what  d'ye  say  it  for,  h'm?  You're 
the  first  man  in — and  you  go  out  first." 


THE    BLOOD   OF   KINGS  191 

"  It  strikes  me  I'm  generally  the  first  man  in  these 
days/'  retorted  Gilleen  angrily;  "  an'  I'm  sick  of  gettin' 
the  short  end  of  it.  I  guess  I  won't  go  out  this 
time." 

It  took  a  breathing  spell  before  the  master  mechanic 
could  explode  adequately. 

'  You  call  yourself  a  railroad  man !  "  he  flung  out 
furiously.  "  What  are  you  whining  about  ?  Every 
man's  got  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  pushing  with- 
out talk.  We  haven't  got  any  room  here  for  quitters. 
I  guess  that  blood  of  yours  you're  so  pinhead-brained 
proud " 

Regan  did  not  finish.  With  a  bellow  of  rage  the 
red-haired  engineer  went  at  the  other  like  a  charging 
bull,  and  the  master  mechanic  promptly  measured  his 
length  on  the  roundhouse  floor  from  a  wallop  on  the 
head  that  made  him  see  stars. 

Regan  scrambled  to  his  feet.  His  heart  was  the 
heart  of  a  fighter,  even  if  his  build  was  not.  Straight 
at  Gilleen  he  flew,  and  the  passes  and  lunges  and  jabs 
he  made — while  the  engineer  played  on  the  master 
mechanic's  paunch  like  a  kettle-drum  and  delivered  a 
second  wallop  on  the  head  as  a  plaster  for  the  first — are 
historic  only  for  their  infinitesimal  coefficient  of  effect- 
iveness. It  is  unquestionably  certain  that  the  master 
mechanic  then  and  there  would  have  proceeded  to 
make  up  for  some  of  his  lost  sleep,  at  least,  if  Gilleen's 
fireman  and  a  wiper  or  two  hadn't  got  in  between  the 
two  men  just  when  they  did. 

Gilleen  was  boiling  mad. 

"  Well,"  he  bawled,  "  got  anything  more  to  say 


192      ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

about  quittin'  or  that  other  thing?  I  guess  I  won't  go 
out  this  time,  what  ?  " 

Regan  was  equally  mad.  And  as  he  felt  tenderly  of 
his  forehead,  where  a  lump  was  rapidly  approximating 
the  formation  of  a  goose  egg,  he  grew  madder  still. 

"  You  won't  go  out,  won't  you  ?  "  he  roared.  "  Well 
7  guess  you  will ;  and,  what's  more,  you'll  go  out  now 
— and  get  your  time !  I  fire  you,  understand  ?  " 

"You  bet!"  said  "King"  Gilleen— and  that's  all 
he  said.  He  looked  at  the  master  mechanic  for  a  min- 
ute, but  didn't  say  anything  more — just  laughed  and 
walked  out  of  the  roundhouse. 

Naturally  enough,  the  story  got  up  and  down  the 
division,  and  everybody  talked  about  it.  With  their 
rough  and  impartial  justice  they  put  both  men  in  the 
wrong,  but  mostly  Gilleen  for  insubordination.  The 
affront  Gilleen  had  suffered  was  not  so  big  and 
momentous,  a  long  way  from  being  the  vital  thing  in 
their  eyes  that  it  was  in  his.  Gilleen  was  just  nutty 
on  that  point,  that  was  all  there  was  to  that.  Regan's 
judgment  had  been  bad  and  the  moment  he  had  seized 
for  his  thrust  and  fling  was  by  no  manner  of  means  a 
psychological  one;  but,  for  all  that,  Gilleen  had  no 
business  to  strike  the  master  mechanic.  He  had  got 
what  was  coming  to  him — that  was  the  verdict.  He 
was  out  and  out  for  good.  It  was  pretty  generally 
conceded  that  it  would  be  a  long  while  before  he  pulled 
a  throttle  on  the  Hill  Division  again. 

What  sympathy  the  engineer  got,  for  he  got  some, 
wasn't  on  his  own  account.  It  was  on  account  of  his 
family — not  the  ancestral  end  of  it,  however.  Six  kids 


THE    BLOOD   OF    KINGS  193 

and  a  wife  do  not  leave  much  change  out  of  a  pay- 
check even  when  it's  padded  by  overtime ;  six  kids  and 
a  wife  with  no  pay-check  is  pretty  stiff  running. 

Gilleen  was  too  hot  under  the  collar  to  give  a 
thought  to  that  when  he  marched  out  of  the  round- 
house that  noon;  but  it  wasn't  many  hours,  after  he 
had  put  in  a  few  to  make  up  for  the  sleep  he  hadn't  had 
during  the  preceding  weeks,  that  the  problem  was  up 
to  him  for  consideration  with  a  vote  for  adjournment 
for  once  ruled  out  as  not  in  order. 

Mrs.  Gilleen  may  or  may  not  have  shared  her 
spouse's  opinions  on  the  subject  of  his  illustrious 
descent — if  she  did  she  never  put  on  any  "  airs  "  about 
it.  Washing  and  dressing  and  cooking  was  about  all 
one  woman  could  manage  for  a  household  as  big  as 
hers.  That's  what  she  said  anyway,  whenever  any  one 
asked  her  about  it.  And  one  glance  at  the  red-headed 
brood  that  filled  the  front  yard  and  swung  on  the  front 
gate,  whose  hinges  creaked  in  loud  and  bitter  protest, 
was  enough  to  preclude  any  dispute  on  that  score.  Just 
a  little  bit  of  a  woman  she  was  physically;  but  bigger 
practically  than  the  whole  corps  of  leading  lights  in 
social  and  domestic  economy — which,  come  to  think  of 
it,  is  damning  Mrs.  Gilleen  with  faint  praise,  whereas 
too  much  couldn't  be  said  for  her.  However,  let  that 
go.  Mrs.  Gilleen  was  practical,  and  she  had  the  matter 
up  to  the  engineer  almost  before  he  had  the  sleep 
washed  out  of  his  eyes.  No  nagging,  no  reproach, 
nothing  of  that  kind — Mrs.  Gilleen  wasn't  that  sort  of  a 
woman.  "  King,"  or  not,  Gilleen  might  have  been, 
Katie  Gilleen  was  a  queen,  not  in  looks  perhaps,  but  a 


i94     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

queen — that's  flat.  A  fine  woman  is  the  finest  thing  in 
the  world,  and  if  that  were  said  a  little  more  often  than 
it  is  maybe  things  generally  wouldn't  be  any  the  worse 
for  it — which  is  not  a  plank  in  the  platform  of  the 
Suffragettes,  though  it  may  sound  like  it. 

"  Michael,"  said  she,  "  you  rowed  with  Mr.  Regan, 
and  he  fired  you.  Will  he  take  you  back  ?  " 

Gilleen  lowered  the  towel  to  his  chin  to  catch  the 
dripping  water  from  his  hair — he  had  just  buried  his 
head  in  the  washbowl  the  minute  before — and  looked  at 
his  wife. 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  him,  Kate,"  he  said  shortly. 

Mrs.  Gilleen  was  proud,  too — but  for  all  that  she 
sighed. 

"What  will  you  do,  then,  Michael?"  she  asked. 

"  I  dunno  yet,  little  woman.  Some  of  the  others 
will  give  me  a  job,  I  guess.  Mabbe  I'll  try  the  train 
crews.  I'll  hit  'em  up  for  something,  anyway." 

"  But  there's  ever  so  much  less  money  in  that " — 
Mrs.  Gilleen's  tones  were  judicial,  not  plaintive. 

"  I  know  it,"  returned  Gilleen ;  "  but  it'll  tide  us  over 
an'  keep  the  steam  up  till  we  get  a  chance  to  pull  out 
for  somewheres  where  a  man  can  get  an  engine  with- 
out a  grinning  fool  of  a  master  mechanic  to  double- 
cross  him  with  the  worst  of  it  every  chance  he  gets." 

"  I  hope  it  will  all  come  out  right,"  said  Mrs.  Gilleen, 
a  little  wistfully. 

"  It  will,"  Gilleen  assured  her.  "  Don't  you  worry. 
I'll  get  after  a  job  right  away  as  soon  as  I've  had  a 
bite." 

It   came   easier  even   than   Gilleen  had  figured   it 


THE    BLOOD    OF    KINGS  195 

would — such  as  it  was — and  it  was  about  the  last  job 
Gilleen  had  thought  of  as  a  possibility.  Things  have  a 
peculiar  way  of  working  themselves  out  sometimes, 
and,  curiously  enough,  by  means  which,  on  the  surface, 
are,  more  often  than  not,  apparently  trivial  and  incon- 
sequent. Certainly,  if  Gilleen,  on  his  way  to  the  sta- 
tion that  morning,  had  not  run  into  Gleason,  the  yard- 
master,  why  then — but  he  did. 

"  Call-boys  kind  of  scarce  around  your  diggin's  since 
yesterday,  ain't  they,  Gilleen  ?  "  was  Gleason's  greet- 
ing. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gilleen.     "  I'm  out." 

"  See  you're  headin'  for  the  station,"  remarked 
Gleason  tentatively.  "  Goin'  down  to  patch  it  up  ?  " 

"  No !  "  answered  Gilleen  with  a  hard  ring  in  his 
voice — the  "  no  "  was  emphatic. 

Gleason  stared  at  the  engineer  for  a  minute,  then 
took  a  bite  from  his  plug,  and  the  motion  of  his  head 
might  have  been  a  nod  of  understanding  or  merely  a 
wrench  or  two  to  free  his  teeth  from  the  black-strap  in 
which  they  were  imbedded. 

"No,"  said  Gilleen  again;  "  I'm  not.  I'm  goin' 
down  for  another  job." 

"What  kind  of  a  job?"  inquired  Gleason. 

"  Any  kind  from  any  one  that  will  put  me  on — ex- 
cept Regan." 

Gleason  thought  of  his  choked  yards — the  rush  had 
in  no  way  overlooked  him.  Men,  men  that  knew  a 
draw-bar  and  a  switch-handle  from  a  hunk  of  cheese, 
were  as  scarce  in  his  department  as  they  were  in  any 
of  the  others. 


196     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

"  Yards  ?  "  he  queried — and  blinked. 

"  D'ye  mean  it  ?  "  demanded  Gilleen,  taking  him  up 
short. 

"  Sure,  I  mean  it." 

"  You're  on,"  said  Gilleen. 

"  Night  switchman,"  amplified  the  yard-master. 
"  You  can  begin  to-night." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  on  deck,"  agreed  Gilleen;  "an* 
thanks,  Gleason.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  Humph !  "  grunted  Gleason.  "  'Tain't  much  of  a 
stake  compared  with  an  engine,  but  it's  yours,  an'  wel- 


come." 


It  was  quite  true.  Comparatively,  it  wasn't  much  of 
a  stake,  and  even  the  first  night  of  it  was  enough  to 
throw  the  comparison  into  strong  and  bitter  relief. 
If  anything  would  have  put  a  finishing  touch  on  Gil- 
leen's  feelings  anent  the  master  mechanic  it  was  that 
first  night  on  yard  switching,  that  and,  of  course,  the 
nights  that  followed.  It  wasn't  so  much  the  work, 
though  that  was  hard  enough,  and,  being  green,  the 
engineer  made  about  twice  as  much  for  himself  as 
there  was  any  need  of,  it  was  a  not-to-be-denied  ten- 
dency of  his  eyes  to  stray  toward  the  roundhouse  every 
time  a  gleaming  headlight  showed  on  the  turn-table. 
If  Gilleen  had  never  known  before  how  much  he  loved 
an  engine  he  knew  it  in  those  dark  hours  while  he 
swung  a  lantern  from  the  roofs  of  a  freight  string,  or 
hopped  the  foot-board  of  the  switcher.  Up  and  down 
the  yards  from  dusk  till  dawn,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  wheezing,  grunting,  coughing,  foreshortened 
apology  for  a  shunter,  the  clash  of  brake-beams,  the 


THE    BLOOD    OF    KINGS  197 

bump  and  rattle,  staccato,  diminuendo,  as  a  line  of 
box-cars  grumbled  into  motion,  didn't  take  on  any  ro- 
seate hues  from  the  angle  Gilleen  looked  at  it ;  nor  did 
an  occasional  ten-wheeler,  out  or  in,  sailing  grandly 
past  him  with  impudent  airs  help  any,  either.  Gilleen's 
language  became  as  freckled  as  his  face  and  hands  and 
as  fiery  as  his  head.  Even  that  grand  old  Irish  race 
from  which  he  sprang,  that  wild  and  untamed  breed 
of  kingly  sires  paled  into  insignificance— Gilleen  was 
more  occupied  with  Regan.  What  he  thought  he  said, 
and  said  it  aloud  without  making  any  bones  about  it 
— said  it  through  his  teeth,  with  his  fists  clenched. 

Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  Gilleen  was  on  nights, 
for,  ordinarily,  the  master  mechanic  had  nothing  to 
bring  him  around  the  yards,  shops  or  roundhouse  after 
sundown — Regan's  evenings  being  spent  with  Carle- 
ton,  the  super,  a  pipe  and  a  game  of  pedro  upstairs 
over  the  station  in  the  superintendent's  office  next 
door  to  the  dispatcher's  room — just  as  well  for  both 
their  sakes;  for  Regan's  physically;  for  Gilleen's  be- 
cause, little  fond  of  his  job  as  he  was,  there  were 
certain  necessities  that  even  little  Mrs.  Gilleen  with 
all  her  practicability  and  economy  could  not  supply 
without  money.  Anyway,  the  days  went  by  and  the 
two  men  did  not  meet,  though  Gilleen's  orations  got 
around  to  Regan's  ears  fast  enough.  The  master 
mechanic  only  laughed  when  he  heard  them. 

"Gilleen,"  said  he,  "is  like  the  parrot  that  said 
'  sic  'em ! '  and  said  it  once  too  often.  He  talks  too 
much.  If  he'd  kept  his  mouth  shut  I'd  have  given  him 
his  run  back,  after  a  lay  off  to  teach  him  manners.  As 


198     ON    THE    IRON   AT    BIG   CLOUD 

it  is,  if  he  likes  switching  let  him  keep  at  it.  Mabbe 
by  the  time  he's  tired  the  throne  of  his  ancestors'll  be 
ready  for  him,  what  ?  " 

All  this  was  enough  to  spell  ructions  in  the  air,  and, 
ordinarily,  the  division  to  a  man  would  have  hung 
mildly  expectant  on  the  result  of  the  final  showdown. 
But  the  Hill  Division  just  then  wasn't  hankering  for 
anything  more  to  liven  it  up — it  was  getting  all  of  that 
sort  of  thing  it  wanted  and  a  little  besides.  Attending 
strictly  to  business  was  about  all  it  could  do,  a  trifle 
beyond  what  it  could  do,  and  everything  else  was  apart 
— the  boom  showed  more  signs  of  increasing  than  it 
did  of  being  on  the  wane.  There  wasn't  any  let-up 
anywhere — things  sizzled. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours,  they  say;  and  that's  one 
adage,  at  least,  that  the  railroad  men  of  Big  Cloud,  and 
the  town  itself  for  that  matter,  will  swear  by  to  this 
day.  There  are  a  few  things  that  Big  Cloud  remem- 
bers vividly  and  with  astounding  minuteness  for  detail, 
but  the  night  the  shops  went  up  tops  them  all. 

When  it  was  all  over  they  decided  that  a  slumbering 
forge-fire  in  the  blacksmith  shop  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it — not  that  any  one  really  knew,  or  knows  now, 
but  they  put  it  down  to  that  because  it  sounded  rea- 
sonable and  because  there  wasn't  anything  else  to  put 
it  down  to.  However,  whether  that  was  the  cause  or 
whether  it  wasn't,  on  one  point  there  was  no  possible 
opening  for  an  argument — and  that  was  the  effect  and 
the  result. 

If  you  knew  Big  Cloud  in  the  old  days,  you  know 
where  the  shops  were  and  what  they  looked  like;  if 


THE   BLOOD    OF    KINGS  199 

you  didn't,  it  won't  take  a  minute  to  tell  you.  You 
could  see  them  from  the  station  platform  across  the 
tracks  far  up  at  the  west  end  of  the  yards;  and  they 
looked  more  like  a  succession  of  barns  nailed  on  to  each 
other  than  anything  else,  except  for  the  roofs  which 
were  low  and  flat — the  buildings  being  all  one-storied. 
What  with  the  quarters  of  the  boiler-makers,  the  car- 
penters, the  machinists  and  the  fitters,  the  old  shops 
straggled  out  over  a  goodly  length  of  ground,  and  a 
grimy,  ramshackle,  dirty,  blackened,  Godforsaken 
looking  structure  it  was.  To-day,  thanks  to  that  fire 
and  the  Big  Strike  when  it  came  along,  there's  a  mod- 
ern affair  of  structural  steel — and  the  rest  is  but  a  mem- 
ory. However 

Night  in  the  mountains  in  the  Fall  comes  early,  and 
by  nine  o'clock  on  the  night  the  fire  broke  out  it  had 
shut  down  pitch  dark.  Nothing  showed  in  the  yards 
but  the  twinkling  switch  lights,  the  waving  lamps  of 
the  men,  and  an  occasional  gleam  from  the  shunter's 
headlight  when  it  shot  away  from  the  end  of  a  box- 
car. Across  the  tracks  the  station  lights  were  like  fire- 
flies, and  there  was  a  glimmer  or  two  showing  from 
the  roundhouse.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  a  pretty 
strong  west  wind  was  brushing  the  yards,  if  you  could 
count  that  as  anything  apart,  there  was  nothing  out  of 
the  ordinary,  everything  was  going  on  as  usual,  when, 
suddenly  without  warning,  a  wicked  fang  of  flame  shot 
skyward,  then  another  higher  than  the  first.  It  was 
answered  by  a  yell  from  the  yardmen,  caught  up  in  the 
roundhouse,  and  then  the  switcher's  whistle  shrieked 
the  alarm.  A  minute  more,  and  everything  with  steam 


200     ON    THE   IRON   AT    BIG   CLOUD 

enough  to  lift  a  valve  joined  in.  Dark  forms  began 
to  run  in  the  direction  of  the  shops,  and  then  the  bell  in 
the  little  English  chapel  uptown  took  a  hand  in  the 
clamor.  The  alarm  was  unanimous  enough  and  gen- 
eral enough  when  it  came,  there  was  never  any  doubt 
about  that,  but  the  fire  must  have  got  a  pretty  stiff 
start  before  it  broke  through  the  windows  to  fling  its 
first  challenge  at  the  railroad  men. 

Gilleen  and  the  rest  of  the  yard  crew  were  on  the 
run  for  the  scene  when  Gleason's  voice,  bawling  over 
the  din,  halted  them. 

"  Clean  out  three,  four  an'  five,  an'  get  'em  down  to 
the  bottom  of  the  yards,  an'  look  lively!"  he  yelled. 
"  Leave  that  string  of  gondolas  on  six  till  the  last. 
Jump  now,  boys !  Eat  'em  up !  " 

Oil-spattered  floors  and  oil-smeared  walls  are  a  feed- 
ing ground  for  a  fire  than  which  there  is  no  better. 
The  flame  tongues  leaped  higher  and  higher  throwing 
a  lurid  glare  down  the  yards,  and  throwing,  too,  as  the 
wind  caught  them  up  and  whirled  them  in  gusts,  a 
driving  rain  of  sparks  that  threatened  the  long,  dark 
lines  of  rolling  stock,  for  the  most  part  choked  to  the 
doors  with  freight — freight  enough  to  total  a  sum  in 
claim-checks  that  would  blanch  the  cheeks  of  the 
most  florid  director  on  the  board  of  the  Transcontin- 
ental. 

With  Gleason  in  command,  Gilleen  and  his  mates 
went  at  their  work  heads  down.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing fancy  or  artistic  about  the  way  they  banged  those 
cars  to  safety — there  wasn't  time  to  be  fussy.  Behind 
them  the  south  end  of  the  shops  was  already  a  blazing 


THE   BLOOD    OF    KINGS  201 

mass.  The  little  switcher  took  hold  of  first  one  string 
then  another,  shook  it  angrily  for  a  minute  as  her  ex- 
haust roared  into  a  quick  crackle  of  reports  and  the 
drivers  spun  around  like  pin-wheels  making  the  steel 
fly  fire,  then  with  a  cough  and  a  grunt  and  a  final  push 
she  would  snap  the  cars  away  from  her,  and  the  string 
would  go  sailing  down  the  yard  to  bump  and  pound  to 
a  stop,  with  an  echoing  crash,  into  whatever  might 
be  at  the  other  end.  There  was  a  car  or  two  the  next 
morning  with  front-ends  and  rear-ends  and  both  ends 
at  once,  that  looked  as  though  they  had  been  in  a 
cyclone;  and  there  was  a  claim- voucher  or  two  put 
through  for  a  consignment  of  nursing  bottles  and  a 
sewing  machine — not  that  the  two  necessarily  go  to- 
gether, but  no  matter,  they  did  then.  Anyway,  the 
record  the  yardmen  made  that  night  is  the  record  to- 
day, and  in  no  more  than  ten  minutes  there  wasn't  a 
car  within  three  hundred  yards  of  the  shops. 

But  while  the  yard  crew  worked  others  were  not 
idle.  Regan  and  Carleton,  both  of  them,  had  caught 
the  first  flash  from  the  windows  of  the  super's  room, 
and  they  were  down  the  stairs,  across  the  yards  and 
into  the  game  from  the  start.  Joined  by  the  nightmen 
and  the  hostlers  and  the  wide-eyed  call-boys  they 
tackled  the  blaze.  By  the  time  they  had  dragged  and 
coupled  the  fifty-foot  hose  lengths,  it  took  five  lengths, 
along  the  tracks  from  the  roundhouse,  the  needle  on 
the  stationary's  gauge,  luckily  not  yet  quite  dead  from 
the  day's  work  and  whose  fire-box  Clarihue,  the  turner, 
now  crammed  with  oil-soaked  packing,  began  to  climb, 
and  they  got  an  uncertain,  weakly  stream  playing — un- 


202      ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

certain,  but  a  stream.  After  that,  things  went  with  a 
rush — both  ways — the  fire  and  the  fight. 

From  the  gambling  hells  and  the  saloons,  from  the 
streets  and  their  homes  came  the  population  of  Big 
Cloud,  the  Polacks,  the  Russians,  the  railroad  men,  the 
good  and  the  bad  whites,  the  half-breeds — and  the 
local  fire  brigade.  Two  more  streams  they  ran  from 
the  roundhouse  and  that  was  the  limit — the  rest  of 
the  hose  was  liquid  rubber  somewhere  under  the 
blaze. 

Regan,  with  a  bitter,  hard  look  on  his  face  for  the 
shops  were  Regan's,  was  everywhere  at  once,  and 
what  man  could  do  he  did;  but,  inch  by  inch,  the  flames 
were  getting  the  better  of  him.  The  yards  were  as 
bright  as  day  now,  and  the  heat  was  driving  the  circle 
of  fighters  back,  stubbornly  as  they  fought  to  hold 
their  ground.  It  looked  like  a  grand  slam  for  the  fire 
with  the  four  aces  in  one  hand.  Twice  Regan  had 
been  on  the  point  of  ordering  the  men  to  the  roof,  and 
twice  he  held  back — once  he  had  even  ordered  a  ladder 
planted,  only  to  order  it  away  again.  The  building 
was  only  wood,  and  old,  and  the  roof  was  none  too 
strong  at  best;  but  now,  under  and  supported  by  the 
roof  of  the  fitting-shop,  put  in  a  month  before  in  lieu 
of  the  old  system  of  jacking  and  blocking  by  hand, 
making  the  risk  a  hundredfold  greater,  were  the  heavy 
steel  girders  and  hydraulic  traveling  cranes  that 
whipped  the  big  moguls  like  jack-straws  from  their 
wheels  preparatory  to  stripping  them  to  their  bare 
boiler-shells.  Regan  shook  his  head — it  was  asking  a 
man  to  take  his  life  in  his  hands.  For  the  moment  he 


THE   BLOOD    OF    KINGS  203 

stood  a  little  apart  in  front  of  the  crowd  and  just  be- 
hind the  nozzle  end  of  one  of  the  streams.  Again 
he  measured  the  chances,  and  again  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  I  can't  ask  a  man  to  do  it,"  he  muttered ;  "  but  we 
ought  to  have  a  stream  up  there,  it's " 

"Why  don't  you  take  it  there  yourself,  then?" — 
the  words  came  sharp  and  quick  from  his  elbow,  sting- 
ing hot  like  the  cut  of  a  whip-lash.  It  was  "  King  " 
Gilleen,  red-haired,  blue-blooded,  freckled-skinned 
Gilleen. 

The  master  mechanic  whirled  like  a  shot,  and  for  a 
minute  the  two  men  stared  into  each  other's  eyes, 
stared  as  the  leaping  flames  sent  flickering  shadows 
across  the  grim,  set  features  of  them  both,  stared  at 
each  other  face  to  face  for  the  first  time  since  that 
noon  in  the  roundhouse  days  before. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  it  there  yourself,  then  ?  "  said 
Gilleen  again,  and  his  laugh  rang  hard  and  cold. 
"  You  ain't  a  quitter,  are  you?  There's  nothin' 
wrong  with  your  blood,  is  there  ?  If  you're  not  afraid 
— come  on !  " — as  he  spoke  he  stepped  forward,  pushed 
the  men  from  the  nozzle — and  looked  back  at  the 
master  mechanic. 

Regan's  lips  were  like  a  thin,  white  line. 

Gilleen  laughed  out  again,  and  it  carried  over  the 
roar  and  the  crackle  of  the  flames,  the  snapping  tim- 
bers, the  hiss  and  spit  of  the  water,  the  voices  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Put  up  the  ladder !  " — it  was  Regan's  voice,  deadly 
cold.  "  Lash  a  short  end  around  that  nozzle,  an'  stand 


204     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

by  to  pass  it  up" — he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
almost  before  they  got  it  in  position,  and  the  next  in- 
stant began  to  climb. 

Like  a  flash,  Gilleen,  surrendering  the  fire-hose  tem- 
porarily, sprang  after  him — and  up. 

It  wasn't  far — the  shops  were  low,  just  one  story 
high — and  both  men  were  on  the  roof  in  a  minute. 
Gilleen  caught  the  coiled  rope  they  slung  him  from 
below,  and  together  he  and  the  master  mechanic  hauled 
up  the  writhing,  spluttering  hose. 

A  shower  of  sparks  and  a  swirling  cloud  of  smoke 
enveloped  them  as  they  stood  upright  and  began  to  ad- 
vance. It  cleared  away  leaving  them  silhouetted 
against  the  leaping  wall  of  flame  a  few  yards  in  front 
of  them — and  a  cheer  went  up  from  the  throats  of  the 
crowd  below. 

Not  a  word  passed  between  the  two  men.  Foot  by 
foot  they  moved  forward,  laying  the  hose  in  a  line 
behind  them  to  lessen  the  weight  and  the  side-pull,  that 
at  first  had  called  forth  all  their  strength  to  direct  the 
play  of  the  stream;  foot  by  foot  they  went  forward, 
closer  and  closer,  perilously  close,  to  the  blistering, 
scorching,  seething  mass — for  neither  of  them  would 
be  the  first  to  hold  back. 

High  into  the  heavens  streamed  the  great  yellow-red 
forks  of  angry  flame,  and  over  all,  like  a  gigantic 
canopy,  rolled  dense  volumes  of  gray-black  smoke. 
Came  at  the  two  men  spurting,  fiery  tongues,  stabbing 
at  them,  robbing  them  of  their  breath,  mocking  at 
their  puny  might. 

Another  step  forward  and  Regan  reeled  back,  one 


THE   BLOOD    OF   KINGS  205 

hand  went  to  his  face — and  the  nozzle  almost  wrenched 
itself  from  the  engineer's  grasp. 

"  It's  a  grand  race !  "  laughed  Gilleen,  but  the  laugh 
was  more  of  a  gasping  cough,  and  the  cough  came 
from  cracked  and  swollen  lips.  "  It's  a  grand  race, 
Regan;  an'  the  blood " 

With  a  choking  sob,  Regan  steadied  himself  and 
seized  hold  of  the  nozzle  again. 

They  held  where  they  were  now — it  was  the  fire,  not 
they,  that  was  creeping  forward,  pitilessly,  inevitably, 
licking  greedily  at  the  tarred  roof  until  it  grew  soft 
beneath  their  feet  and  the  bubbles  puffed  up  and 
formed  and  broke. 

A  cry  of  warning  came  from  below,  and  with  it 
came  the  ominous  rending  groan  of  yielding  timbers. 
It  came  again,  the  cry,  and  rang  in  Gilleen's  ears  al- 
most without  sense.  He  could  scarcely  see,  his  eyes 
were  scorched  and  blinded,  his  lungs  were  full  of  the 
stinging  smoke,  choking  full.  Beside  him  Regan  hung, 
dropping  weak.  "  Get  back,  for  God's  sake,  get 
back!" — it  was  Carleton's  voice.  "Do  you  hear!" 
shouted  the  super  frantically.  "  Get  back !  The  roof 
is  sagging !  Run  for " 

Like  the  roar  of  a  giant  blast,  as  a  park  of  artillery 
belches  forth  in  deafening  thunder,  there  came  a  ter- 
rific crash  and,  fearful  in  its  echo,  a  cry  of  horror  rose 
from  those  below.  Where  there  had  been  roof  a  foot 
in  front  of  the  men  was  now — nothingness. 

Gilleen,  with  a  shout,  as  he  felt  the  edge  crumple 
under  him,  flung  himself  backward  and  as  he  leaped 
he  snatched  at  Regan,  His  fingers  brushed  the  master 


206     ON    THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

mechanic's  sleeve,  hooked,  slipped — and  he  struck  on 
his  back  a  full  yard  away.  He  reeled  to  his  feet  like  a 
drunken  man,  and  dug  at  his  eyes  with  his  fists.  Over 
the  broken  edge  of  the  shattered  roof,  hanging  into  the 
black  below,  was  the  dangling  hose — but  Regan  was 
gone.  Weak,  spent,  exhausted,  the  master  mechanic, 
unequal  to  the  exertion  of  Gilleen's  leap,  had  pitched 
downward,  clutching  desperately,  feebly,  vainly,  as  he 
went.  Regan  was  gone,  and  twenty  feet,  somewhere, 
below — he  lay. 

Gilleen  staggered  forward.  It  was  the  far  end  of 
the  beams  that  had  given  away  and  the  six  or  seven 
yards  of  the  roof  that  had  fallen  still  separated  him 
from  the  heart  of  the  blaze.  The  advancing  flames 
lighted  up  a  scene  of  wreck  and  ruin  below  in  the 
fitting-shop — girders  and  steel  Ts  and  cranes  and 
tackles,  splotches  of  roofing,  shattered  timbers,  lay  over 
the  black  looming  shapes  of  the  monster  engine-shells 
blocked  on  the  pit. 

"  Regan !  "  he  called ;  and  again :  "  Regan ! 
Regan!" 

Above  the  roaring  crackle  of  the  fire,  above  the  surg- 
ing, pounding  noises  that  beat  mercilessly  at  his  ear- 
drums, faint,  so  faint  it  seemed  like  fancy,  a  low  moan 
answered  him.  Once  more  it  came  and  upon  Gilleen 
surged  new-born  strength  and  life.  He  began  to  drag 
at  the  hose  with  all  his  might,  dropping  it  foot  by  foot 
over  the  jagged  edge  of  the  roof  until  it  reached  well 
down  to  the  snarled  and  tangled  wreckage  below.  And 
then  a  mighty  yell  went  up  from  a  hundred  throats — 
and  again  and  again : 


THE   BLOOD    OF    KINGS  207 

"  Gilleen !  King  Gilleen !  King !  King! " 
There  was  no  gibe  now — just  a  bursting  cheer  from 
the  full  hearts  of  men.  "  King! "  they  roared,  and  the 
shout  swelled,  but  Gilleen  never  heard  them  as  they 
crowned  him.  King  he  was  at  last  in  the  eyes  of  all 
men,  a  king  that  knows  no  blood  nor  race  nor  throne 
nor  retinue — Gilleen  was  lowering  himself  down  the 
hose. 

It  was  a  question  of  minutes.  The  fire  was  sweep- 
ing in  a  mad  wave  across  the  intervening  space.  The 
engineer's  feet  touched  something  solid  and  he  let  go 
his  hold  of  the  hose — and  stumbled,  lost  his  balance, 
and  pitched  forward  striking  on  his  head  with  a  blow 
that  dazed  and  stunned  him.  Mechanically  he  under- 
stood that  what  he  had  taken  for  flooring  was  a  work- 
bench. He  got  to  his  feet  again,  the  blood  streaming 
from  his  forehead,  and  shouted.  This  time  there  was 
no  answer.  Staggering,  falling,  tripping,  stumbling, 
he  began  to  search  frantically  amid  the  debris.  The 
air  was  thick  with  the  smothering  smoke,  hot,  stifling, 
drying  up  his  lungs.  He  began  to  moan,  crying  the 
name  of  the  master  mechanic  over  and  over  again, 
crying  it  as  a  man  cries  out  in  delirium.  Bits  of  oil- 
soaked  waste  and  wads  of  packing,  catching  from  the 
glowing  cinders,  were  blazing  around  his  feet,  the  on- 
rush of  the  flames  swept  a  blighting  wave  upon  him 
that  sent  him  reeling  back,  scorching,  blistering  the 
naked  skin  of  his  face  and  hands.  Again  he  fell.  A 
great  sheet  of  fire  leapt  high  behind  him,  held  for  an 
instant,  and  then  the  dull  red  glow  settled  around  him 
again — but  in  that  instant,  just  a  little  to  the  right, 


208     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

pinned  under  a  scanling,  half  hidden  by  a  snarled 
knot  of  roof  and  girders,  was  the  master  mechanic's 
form. 

On  his  knees,  groping  with  his  hands,  Gilleen 
reached  him,  and  began  to  tear  furiously,  savagely, 
madly,  at  the  timber  that  lay  across  Regan's  chest.  He 
moved  it  little  by  little,  every  inch  tasking  his  weaken- 
ing muscles  to  the  utmost.  Blackness  was  before  him, 
he  could  no  longer  see,  he  could  no  longer  breathe, 
hot,  nauseating  fumes  strangled  him  and  sent  the 
blood  bursting  from  his  nostrils.  He  tried  to  lift 
Regan's  shoulders — and  sank  down  beside  the  master 
mechanic  instead.  Feebly  he  raised  his  head — there 
came  the  splintering  crash  of  glass,  a  rushing  stream 
tore  through  a  window,  hissed  against  the  boiler-shell 
above  him,  and,  glancing  off,  lashed  a  cold  spray  of 
water  into  his  face. 

The  window!  Three  yards  to  the  window!  He 
was  up  again,  and  pulling  at  the  dead  weight  of  the 
master  mechanic.  Just  three  yards!  He  cried  like  a 
child  as  he  struggled,  and  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks 
in  streams.  A  foot,  two  feet,  three — two  more  yards 
to  go.  Axes  were  swinging  now  in  front  of  him, 
shouts  reached  him.  Half  the  distance  was  covered — 
but  he  had  gone  to  his  knees.  Everything  around  was 
hot,  it  was  all  fire  and  hell  and  madness.  A  yard  and 
a  half — only  a  yard  and  a  half.  Alone  he  could  make 
it  easily  enough  and  maybe  Regan  was  dead  anyhow, 
alone  and  there  was  safety  and  life,  alone — then  he 
laughed.  "  It's  a  grand  race,  Regan,  a  grand  race," 
he  sobbed  hysterically,  and  his  grip  tightened  on  the 


THE   BLOOD    OF    KINGS  209 

master  mechanic,  and  he  won  another  foot  and  another 
and  another.  A  black  form  wavered  before  him,  he 
felt  an  arm  reach  out  and  grasp  him — then  he  tottered, 
swayed,  and  dropped  inert,  unconscious. 

They  got  him  out,  and  they  got  Regan  out,  and  they 
got  the  fire  out  by  the  time  there  wasn't  much  left  to 
burn;  and,  after  a  week  or  two,  both  men  got  out  of 
the  hospital.  That's  about  all  there  is  to  it,  except  that 
Gilleen's  red  head  now  decorates  the  swellest  cab  on 
the  division,  and  that  he  never  fought  for  his  title 
after  that  night — he  never  had  to ;  though,  if  you  feel 
like  questioning  it,  you  can  still  get  plenty  of  fight,  for 
all  that — any  of  the  boys  will  accommodate  you  any 
time. 

Regan  isn't  an  artist  as  a  pugilist,  but  even  so  it  is 
unwise  to  take  risks — unscientific  men  by  lucky  flukes 
have  handed  knockouts  to  their  betters. 

"If  Gilleen  says  so  that's  enough,  whether  it's  so  or 
not,  what  ?  "  Regan  will  fling  at  you.  "  It's  pretty 
good  blood,  ain't  it,  no  matter  what  kind  it  is?  Well 
then— h'm?" 


IX 
MARLEY 

THERE  are  some  men  they  remember  on  the 
Hill  Division — Marley  is  one  of  them;  and  his  story 
goes  back  to  the  days  before  the  fire  wiped  out  what 
the  strike  had  left  of  the  old  rambling  shops  at  the 
western  end  of  the  Big  Cloud  yards,  back  to  the  time 
when  "  Royal "  Carleton  was  young  in  the  superin- 
tendency  of  the  division,  when  Tommy  Regan,  squat, 
fat  and  paunchy  was  master  mechanic,  and  Harvey 
was  division  engineer,  and  Spence  was  chief  dispatcher, 
when  the  Big  Fellows,  as  they  were  called,  wrestled 
with  the  rough  of  it,  shaking  the  steel  down  into  a  per- 
manent right  of  way,  shackling  the  Rockies,  welding 
the  West  and  the  East. 

Marley  was  not  a  "  Big  Fellow  "  in  either  sense  of 
the  word. 

Officially,  when  he  started  in,  he  wasn't  anything — 
that  is,  anything  in  particular.  Sort  of  general  assist- 
ant, assistant  section  hand,  assistant  boiler  washer, 
assistant  anything  you  like  to  everybody — Marley's 
duties,  if  nothing  else,  were  multifarious. 

Physically,  he  was  a  queer  card.  He  was  built  on 
plans  that  gave  you  the  impression  Dame  Nature  had 
been  doing  a  little  something  herself  along  the  lines  of 
original  research  and  experimentation — and  wasn't 

2IO 


MARLEY  211 

well  enough  satisfied  with  the  result  to  duplicate  it! 
Anyway,  as  far  as  any  one  ever  knew,  there  wasn't  but 
one  Marley  produced.  Maybe  nature,  even,  isn't  in- 
fallible ;  maybe  she  made  a  mistake,  maybe  she  didn't. 
You  couldn't  call  him  deformed — and  yet  you  could ! 
That's  Marley  exactly — when  you  get  to  describing 
him  you  get  contradictory.  It  must  have  been  his  neck. 
That  lopped  off  two  or  three  inches  from  his  stature — 
because  he  hadn't  any !  But  if  that  shortened  him  down 
to,  say,  five  feet  five,  which  isn't  so  short  after  all— 
there's  the  contradiction  again,  you  see — the  length 
of  his  arms  at  least  was  something  to  marvel  at,  they 
made  up  for  the  neck.  Regan  used  to  say  Marley 
could  stand  on  the  floor  of  the  roundhouse  and  clean 
out  an  engine  pit  without  leaning  over.  The  master 
mechanic  was  more  or  less  gifted  with  imagination, 
but  he  wasn't  so  far  out,  not  more  than  a  couple  of  feet 
or  so,  at  that.  Marley's  hair,  more  than  anything 
else  that  comes  handy  by  way  of  comparison,  was  like 
the  stuff,  in  color  and  texture,  the  fellows  on  the  stage 
light  and  put  in  their  mouths  so  as  to  blow  out  smoke 
like  a  belching  stack  under  forced  draft — tow,  they 
call  it.  Eyes' — no  woman  ever  had  any  like  them — 
big  and  round  and  wide,  with  a  peculiar  violet  tinge 
to  them,  and  lids  that  had  a  trick  of  closing  down  with 
a  little  hesitating  flutter  like  a  girl  trying  to  flirt  with 
you. 

But  what's  the  use !  Marley,  piecemeal,  would  never 
look  like  the  short-stepping,  springy-walked,  foreshort- 
ened, arms-flopping  Marley  with  the  greasy  black 
peaked  cap  pulled  over  his  forehead,  the  greasy  jumper 


212     ON   THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

tucked  into  greasier  overalls  who  sold  his  hybrid  serv- 
ices to  the  Transcontinental  for  the  munificent  sum  of 
a  dollar  ten  a  day. 

Marley's  arrival  and  introduction  to  Big  Cloud  was, 
like  Marley  himself,  decidedly  out  of  the  ordinary  and 
by  no  manner  of  means  commonplace.  Marley  arrived 
"  'boing  it  "  in  a  refrigerator  car. 

They  ice  the  cars  at  Big  Cloud  and,  luckily  for 
Marley,  the  particular  one  he  had,  in  some  unexplained 
way,  managed  to  appropriate  required  a  little  some- 
thing more  than  icing.  They  pulled  him  out  in  about 
as  flabby  a  condition  as  a  sack  of  flour.  He  didn't  say 
anything  for  himself  mainly  because  he  was  pretty 
nearly  past  ever  saying  anything  for  himself  or  any- 
body else.  The  boys  who  found  him  cursed  fluently 
because  he  wasn't  a  pleasant  sight,  and  then  carried 
him  up  Main  Street  on  the  door  of  a  box-car  with  the 
hazy  notion  that  MacGuire's  Blazing  Star  Saloon  was 
the  most  fitting  Mecca  available. 

Marley  continued  to  play  in  luck.  Mrs.  Coogan,  the 
mother  of  Chick  Coogan,  that  is,  who  went  out  in  the 
Fall  blizzard  on  the  Devil's  Slide  some  years  before, 
spotted  the  procession  as  it  passed  her  little  shack, 
halted  it,  made  a  hasty,  but  none  the  less  comprehen- 
sive, examination,  amplified  it  by  a  few  scathing  re- 
marks on  discovering  the  proposed  destination,  per- 
emptorily ordered  them  into  her  bit  of  a  cottage  and 
installed  Marley  therein. 

He  was  pretty  far  gone,  pretty  far — and  he  hung  on 
the  ragged  edge  for  weeks.  Nobody  knows  what  Mrs. 
Coogan  did  for  him  except  Marley  himself;  but  it  was 


MARLEY  213 

generally  conceded  that  she  did  more  than  she  could 
afford  for  anybody,  let  alone  doing  it  for  a  stray  hobo, 

Marley  got  well  in  time,  of  course,  for,  than  old, 
motherly  Mrs.  Coogan  there  was  no  better  nurse,  even 
if  she  had  few  comforts  and  dainties  and  less  money  to 
buy  them  with;  and  then  Marley  got  a  job — or  rather 
Mrs.  Coogan  got  one  for  him. 

There  wasn't  anything  Mrs.  Coogan  could  have 
asked  for  and  not  got  that  was  within  their  power  to 
give  her — she  was  Chick's  mother,  and  with  Carleton 
or  Regan  or  any  of  the  rest  of  them  that  was  enough. 
But  Mrs.  Coogan  never  asked  anything  for  herself — 
she  had  the  Coogan  pride. 

"  The  good  Lord  be  praised,"  she  would  say — Mrs. 
Coogan  was  sincerely  devout.  "  I'm  able  to  worrk,  so 
I  am,  an'  f why  should  I  ?  " 

Why  should  she  ?  They  smiled  at  her  as  men  smile 
when  something  touches  them  under  the  vest,  and  they 
want  to  say  the  proper  thing — and  can't.  They  smiled 
— and  gave  her  their  washing. 

Mrs.  Coogan  tackled  Regan  on  Marley's  behalf. 

The  master  mechanic  scratched  his  head  in  perplex- 
ity, but  his  reply  was  prompt  and  hearty  enough. 

"  Sure.  Sure  thing,  Mrs.  Coogan,"  he  said.  "  Send 
him  down  to  me.  I'll  find  him  something  to  do." 

To  Marley  he  talked  a  little  differently. 

"  I  ain't  quite  sure  I  like  the  looks  of  you/'  he 
flung  out  bluntly  enough,  taking  in  the  new  man  from 
head  to  toe.  "  There's  no  job  for  you,  but  I'll  give 
you  a  chance." 

Marley's  eyes  came  down  in  a  flutter. 


214     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

"  Thanks,  sir,"  he  mumbled  nervously. 

Tommy  Regan  wasn't  used  to  being  "  sir  "  ed — the 
Hill  Division  did  its  business  with  few  handles  and  it 
wasn't  long  on  the  amenities. 

"  Humph !  "  he  ejaculated  with  a  snort,  and  a  stream 
of  black-strap  laid  the  dust  on  a  good  few  inches  of 
engine  cinders.  "  You  can  hand  any  thanks  you've 
got  coming  over  to  Mother  Coogan.  And  say  " — the 
master  mechanic  wriggled  his  fat  forefinger  under 
Marley's  nose — "  thanks  are  all  right  as  far  as  they  go, 
but  I  figure  you  owe  her  something  over  and  above 
that,  what  ?  " 

A  faint  flush  came  into  Marley's  cheeks  and  he 
darted  a  quick  look  at  Regan.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
ground  and  his  hands  had  suddenly  disappeared  in  his 
pockets  before  he  answered. 

"  I'm  going  to  board  with  her  a  spell,"  he  said  in  a 
slow  way,  as  though  he  was  measuring  every  word 
before  it  was  uttered. 

"  Are,  eh  ?  "  grunted  Regan,  but  the  grunt  carried 
a  grudging  note  of  approval.  "  Well,  maybe  that'll 
help  some.  You  can  report  at  noon,  Marley,  and  make 
yourself  generally  handy  around.  I  reckon  you'll  find 
enough  to  do." 

:( Thanks,  sir,"  said  Marley  again,  as  he  turned 
away. 

Regan,  leaning  on  the  turntable  push-bar  in  front  of 
the  roundhouse,  followed  with  his  eyes  as  the  other 
crossed  the  tracks  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  then 
he  spat  profoundly  again. 

"  Queerest  looking  specimen  that  ever  blew  into  the 


MARLEY  215 

mountains,  and  we've  had  some  before  that  were  in  a 
whole  class  by  themselves  at  that,"  he  remarked,  screw- 
ing up  his  eyebrows.  "  Makes  you  think  of  a  blasted 
gorilla  the  way  he's  laid  out,  what  ?  Well,  we'll  give 
him  a  try  anyway,"  and,  with  a  final  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  retreating  figure,  the  master  mechanic 
went  into  the  roundhouse  for  his  morning  inspection  of 
the  big  moguls  on  the  pits. 

It  took  the  division  and  Big  Cloud  some  time  to  size 
up  the  new  man,  and  then  just  about  when  they 
thought  they  had  they  found  they  hadn't. 

Marley,  if  he  was  nothing  else,  was  a  contradictory 
specimen. 

Mrs.  Coogan  said  it  was  like  the  good  Lord  was 
kind  of  paying  her  special  attention,  kind  of  giving  her 
another  son — "  so  quiet  an'  accommodatin'  an'  handy 
to  have  around.  A  good  bhoy  was  Marley — a  foine 
lad."  One  hand  would  rest  on  her  hip,  and  the  other 
would  smooth  the  thin  white  hair  over  her  ear  with 
quick,  nervous,  little  pats  as  she  talked,  and  the  gray 
Irish  eyes,  a  little  dim  now,  would  light  up  happily. 
'  Yes,  ut's  more  than  I  deserve ;  but  I  always  knew  the 
Lord  wud  provide.  'Tain't  so  easy  to  move  the  tubs 
around  as  it  uster  be.  I  guess  I  knew  it,  but  I  wasn't 
willin'  to  admit  it  till  I  had  somebody  to  do  it  for  me. 
Sivinty-wan  I  was  last  birthday.  'Tain't  old  for  a 
man,  but  a  woman — indade  he's  a  foine  lad,  an'  'tis 
myself  that  ses  ut." 

Down  at  headquarters  Mrs.  Coogan's  praise  went  a 
long  way,  and  after  Carleton  and  Regan  and  the  others 
in  the  office  got  accustomed  to  seeing  him  around  they 


216     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

came  to  accept  him  in  a  passive,  indifferent  sort  of  a 
way.  He  was  a  curious  case,  if  you  like,  but  inoffen- 
sive— they  let  it  go  at  that. 

The  men  had  their  view-point.  Marley  didn't  talk 
much,  didn't  draw  out  the  way  a  new  hand  was  ex- 
pected to  in  order  to  establish  his  footing  with  the 
fraternity.  Least  of  all  did  he  make  any  overtures 
tending  to  anything  like  an  intimate  relationship  with 
any  of  his  new  associates.  Marley  was  never  one  of 
the  group  behind  the  storekeeper's  office  that  had 
stolen  out  from  the  shops  for  a  drag  at  their  pipes 
and  a  breath  of  air ;  never  on  the  platform  to  exchange 
a  word  of  banter  with  the  crews  of  the  incoming 
trains;  never  amongst  the  wipers  and  hostlers  in  the 
roundhouse  who  lounged  in  idle  moments  in  the  lee 
of  a  ten-wheeler  with  an  eye  out  across  the  yards 
against  the  possible  intrusion  of  Regan  or  some  other 
embodiment  of  authority.  He  was  civil  enough  and 
quick  enough  to  answer  when  he  was  spoken  to,  but 
his  words  were  few — no  more  than  a  simple  negative 
or  affirmative  if  he  could  help  it.  And  when  he  him- 
self was  in  question  there  was  not  even  that — Marley 
became  dumb. 

All  this  did  not  help  him  any — he  wasn't  what  you'd 
call  exactly  popular!  So,  if  he  had  little  to  say  for 
himself,  the  men  had  plenty,  and  the  general  opinion 
was  that  he  was  a  surly  brute  that  by  no  possible 
chance  was  any  credit  to  the  Hill  Division  and  by  no 
manner  of  means  an  acquisition  to  Big  Cloud. 

A  few,  very  few,  took  a  more  charitable  view,  bas- 
ing it  on  the  shy,  slow  flutter  of  Marley's  eyelids — 


MARLEY  217 

they  charged  it  up  to  an  acute  sensitiveness  of  his 
grotesque  and  abnormal  appearance.  That  isn't  the 
way  they  put  it,  though. 

"  Looks  like  hell,  an'  he  knows  it,"  said  they  judici- 
ally. "  Let  the  beggar  alone." 

It  was  good  advice,  whether  their  analysis  was  or 
wasn't — Pete  Boileau,  the  baggage  master,  can  vouch 
for  that.  As  the  time-worn  saying  has  it,  it  came  like 
a  bolt  from  the  blue,  and — but  just  a  minute,  we're 
overrunning  our  targets  and  that  means  trouble. 

Things  had  gone  along,  as  far  as  Marley  was  con- 
cerned, without  anything  very  startling  or  out  of  the 
way  happening  for  quite  a  spell,  and  Regan,  who  had 
stood  closer  to  Chick  Coogan  than  any  other  man  on 
the  division  before  the  young  engineer  died,  had  begun 
to  look  on  Marley  with  a  little  more  interest — as  a  sort 
of  deus  ex  machina  for  Mrs.  Coogan.  It  seemed  to 
afford  the  big-hearted  master  mechanic  a  good  deal  of 
relief.  He  got  to  talking  about  it  to  Carleton  one 
morning  about  a  month  after  Marley's  advent  to  the 
Hill  Division. 

"  No,  of  course,  I  don't  know  anything  about  him,3" 
he  said.  "  Nobody  does,  I  guess  they  don't.  But  he 
minds  his  own  business  and  does  what  he  has  to  do 
well  enough,  h'm  ?  The  old  lady's  been  getting  a  little 
feeble  lately — kind  of  wearing  out,  I  guess  she  is.  I 
was  thinking  Marley  was  worth  a  little  more  than  a 
dollar  ten  a  day,  what  ?  " 

They  were  sitting  in  the  super's  office,  and  Carle- 
ton's  glance,  straying  out  through  the  window  from 
where  he  sat  at  his  desk,  fastened  on  Marley's  clumsy, 


218     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

ungainly  figure  hopping  across  the  yard  tracks  from 
the  roundhouse  toward  the  station  platform.  He 
smiled  a  little  and  looked  back  at  Regan. 

"  I  guess  so,  Tommy — if  it  will  do  her  any  good.  I 
wouldn't  bank  on  it,  though.  He's  a  queer  card.  Im- 
presses you  with  the  feeling  that  there's  something  you 
ought  to  know  about  him — and  don't.  I've  a  notion, 
somehow,  I've  seen  him  before." 

"Have  you?"  said  Regan.  "That's  funny.  I've 
thought  I  had  myself  once  or  twice,  but  I  guess  it's 
imagination  more  than  anything  else.  Anyway,  he 
seems  to  remember  what  Mrs.  Coogan  did  for  him. 
I  dunno  what  she'd  do  even  now  without  the  board 
money,  little  as  it  is,  to  help  out.  There's  no  use  bor- 
rowing trouble  I  suppose,  but  later  on  I  dunno  what 
on  earth  she'll  do.  She's  prouder  than  a  sceptered 
queen — and  she  won't  be  able  to  wash  much  longer, 
nor  take  a  boarder  either,  what  ?  " 

Carleton  sucked  at  his  briar  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

:<  We've  all  got  to  face  the  possibility  of  the  scrap 
heap  some  day,  Tommy,"  he  said  soberly.  "  But  it's 
harder  for  a  woman,  I'll  admit — bitter  hard.  Some- 
times things  don't  seem  just  right.  If  you  want  to 
give  Marley  a  small  raise,  go  ahead." 

The  master  mechanic  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  think  I  will,"  he  announced.  "  He's  queer  if 
you  like,  but  that's  his  own  business.  Never  a  word 
out  of  him  nor  a  bit  of  trouble  since " 

Regan's  words  stopped  as  though  they  had  been 
chopped  off  with  a  knife.  Both  men,  as  though  actu- 
ated by  a  single  impulse,  had  leaped  to  their  feet.  Be- 


MARLEY  219 

hind  them  their  chairs  toppled  unheeded  with  a  crash 
to  the  floor,  and  for  an  instant,  as  their  eyes  met  each 
other's,  the  color  faded  in  their  cheeks.  It  had  come 
and  gone  like  a  flash — a  wild,  hoarse  scream  of  rage, 
a  brute  scream,  horrid,  blood  curdling,  like  the  jungle 
howl  of  some  maddened  beast  plunged  in  a  savage, 
blind,  all-possessing  paroxysm  of  fury. 

Themselves  again  in  a  second,  the  master  mechanic 
and  superintendent  sprang  to  the  window. 

On  the  platform,  up  at  the  far  end,  the  great  form 
of  Pete  Boileau  rocked  and  swayed  like  a  drunken 
man,  and  clinging  to  him,  his  legs  twined  around  the 
other's  knees,  his  arms  locked  around  the  baggage- 
master's  body  just  above  the  elbows — was  Marley! 

Regan  and  Carleton  gazed  spellbound.  There  was 
something  uncanny,  inhuman  about  the  scene — like  a 
rabid  dog  that  had  leaped,  snarling,  for  the  throat  hold. 

Suddenly,  Marley's  legs  with  a  quick,  wriggling 
slide,  released  their  hold,  his  whole  form  appeared  to 
shrink,  grow  smaller,  he  seemed  to  crouch  on  his  knees 
at  the  other's  feet,  then  his  body  jerked  itself  erect  to 
its  full  stature  with  a  movement  swift  as  a  loosed  bow- 
string, his  arms  flew  up  carrying  a  great  burden,  and 
over  his  shoulders,  over  his  head,  a  sprawling  form 
hurtled  through  the  air. 

"  Merciful  God!  He's  killed  him!  "  gasped  Carle- 
ton,  dashing  for  the  door.  "  Come  on,  Tommy. 
Quick!" 

Both  men  were  down  the  stairs  in  a  space  of  time 
that  Regan,  at  least,  chunky  and  fat,  has  never  dupli- 
cated before  or  since.  Carleton,  hard-faced  and  tight- 


220     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

lipped,  led  the  way,  with  the  picture  beating  into  his 
brain  of  Boileau's  senseless  form  on  the  ground  and 
the  other  above  tearing  like  a  beast  at  its  prey.  He 
wrenched  the  door  of  the  station  open,  sprang  out  on  to 
the  platform,  stopped  involuntarily,  and  then  ran  for- 
ward again. 

The  baggage-master's  form  was  on  the  ground  lying 
in  a  curled-up,  huddled  heap,  and  he  was  senseless  all 
right — if  he  wasn't  something  more  than  that.  But  the 
rest  of  Carleton's  mental  picture  was  wrong,  dead 
wrong.  Right  beside  where  the  fight,  if  fight  it  could 
be  called,  had  taken  place  was  a  baggage  truck,  and 
over  this,  his  head  down,  his  two  great  arms  wound 
round  his  face,  shoulders  heaving  in  convulsive  sobs, 
Marley  was  crying  like  a  broken-hearted  child. 

Take  him  any  way  you  like,  look  at  him  any  way 
you  like,  Marley,  whatever  else  he  was,  was  a  contra- 
dictory specimen. 

Any  other  man  with  a  skull  a  shade  less  tender  than 
Boileau's — it  must  have  been  made  of  boiler  plate — 
would  never  have  drawn  another  pay  check.  And 
even  granting  the  boiler  plate  part  of  it,  it  was  some- 
thing to  wonder  at.  He  had  gone  through  the  air  like 
a  rocket,  and  his  head  had  caught  the  full  of  it  when 
he  landed.  How  far?  Carleton  never  said.  He 
measured  it — twice.  But  he  never  gave  out  the  figures 
of  Boileau's  aerial  flight.  Pete  was  a  big  man,  six 
feet  something,  and  heavy  for  his  height.  The 
strength  of  four  ordinary  men  concentrated  in  one 
pair  of  arms  might  have  done  it  perhaps ;  mathematic- 
ally it  wouldn't  figure  out  any  other  way.  Carleton 


MARLEY  221 

never  said.  But  what's  the  use!  The  division  did 
some  tall  thinking  over  it — and  Marley  cried ! 

They  picked  up  Pete  Boileau  and  carried  him  into 
the  station,  and  the  contents  of  a  fire  bucket  over  his 
head  opened  his  eyes.  But  it  was  a  good  fifteen  min- 
utes before  he  could  talk,  and  by  that  time  when  they 
got  over  their  scare  and  thought  of  Marley  the  baggage 
truck  was  deserted. 

"  What  started  it ! "  growled  Boileau,  repeating 
Carleton's  inquiry.  "  I'm  hanged  if  I  know.  I  was 
jossing  him  a  little — nothing  to  make  anybody  sore. 
I  was  only  funning  anyhow,  and  laughing  when  I  said 
it." 

"  Said  what  ?  "  demanded  Regan,  cutting  in. 

"  Why,  nothing  much.  He  looked  so  queer  hopping 
across  the  tracks  like  a  monkey  on  a  stick  that  I  just 
asked  him  why  he  didn't  cut  out  railroading  and  hit 
up  a  museum  for  a  job,  and  then  before  I  knew  it  he 
let  out  a  screech  and  was  on  me  like  a  blasted  cata- 
mount." 

"  Serves  you  right,"  said  the  master  mechanic 
gruffly.  "  I  guess  you  wron't  nag  him  again,  I  guess 
you  won't.  And  none  of  the  other  men  won't  neither 
if  they've  had  any  notion  that  way." 

"  He's  a  wicked  little  devil,"  snarled  Boileau.  "  And 
the  strength  of  him  " — the  baggage-master  shivered 
• — "  he  ain't  human.  He'll  kill  somebody  yet,  that's 
what  he'll  do !  " 

Pete's  summing  up  was  a  popular  one — the  men 
promptly  ticketed  and  carded  Marley  as  per  Boileau's 
bill  of  lading.  There  wasn't  any  more  doubt  about 


222     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

him,  no  discussions,  no  anything.  They  knew  Marley 
at  last,  and  they  liked  him  less  than  ever;  but,  also, 
they  imbibed  a  very  wholesome  respect  for  the  welfare 
of  their  own  skins.  A  man  with  arms  whose  strength 
is  the  strength  of  derrick  booms  is  to  be  approached 
with  some  degree  of  caution. 

Marley  himself  said  nothing.  Carleton  and  Regan 
got  him  on  the  carpet  and  tried  to  get  his  version  of 
the  story,  but  for  all  they  got  out  of  him  they  might 
as  well  have  saved  their  time. 

A  pathetic  enough  looking  figure,  in  a  way,  he  was, 
as  he  stood  in  the  super's  office  the  afternoon  of  the 
fight.  The  shoulders  were  drooping  giving  the  arms 
an  even  longer  appearance  than  usual,  no  color  in  his 
face,  the  violet  eyes  almost  black,  with  a  dead,  hunted 
look  in  them.  Sorrow,  remorse,  dread — neither  Regan 
nor  Carleton  knew.  They  couldn't  understand  him — 
then.  Marley  offered  no  explanation,  volunteered 
nothing.  Boileau's  story  was  right — that  was  all. 

"  You  might  have  killed  the  man,"  said  Carleton 
sternly,  at  the  end  of  an  unsatisfactory  twenty  minutes. 
"  You  can  thank  your  Maker  you  haven't  his  blood  on 
your  hands — it's  a  miracle  you  haven't.  Don't  you 
know  your  own  strength  ?  We  can't  have  that  sort  of 
thing  around  here/' 

Marley's  face  seemed  to  grow  even  whiter  than  be- 
fore and  he  shivered  a  little,  though  the  afternoon  was 
dripping  wet  with  the  heat  and  the  thermometer  was 
sizzling  well  up  in  the  nineties — he  shivered  but  his 
lips  were  hard  shut  and  he  didn't  say  a  word. 

Carleton,  for  once  in  his  life  when  it  came  to  hand- 


MARLEY  223 

ling  men,  didn't  seem  to  be  altogether  sure  of  himself. 
An  ordinary  fight  was  one  thing,  and,  generally  speak- 
ing, strictly  the  men's  own  business;  but  everything 
about  Marley,  from  his  arrival  at  Big  Cloud  to  the 
sudden  beastlike  ferocity  he  had  displayed  that  morn- 
ing, put  a  little  different  complexion  on  the  matter. 
A  puzzled  look  settled  on  the  super's  face  as  he  glanced 
from  Marley  to  the  master  mechanic,  while  his  fingers 
drummed  a  tattoo  on  the  edge  of  his  desk. 

'  You  had  some  provocation,  Marley,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  not  taking  that 
into  consideration — but  not  enough  to  work  up  any 
such  deviltry  as  you  exhibited.  You'll  never  get  on 
with  the  men  here  after  this.  They'll  make  things 
pretty  hard  for  you.  I  think  you'd  better  go — for  your 
own  sake." 

There  was  dead  silence  in  the  super's  room  for  a 
half  minute,  then  Regan,  who  had  been  sitting  with 
his  chair  tilted  back  and  his  feet  up  on  the  window-sill, 
dropped  the  chair  legs  to  the  floor  and  swung  around. 

"  I  put  Logan  up  firing  yesterday,"  said  he. 
"  There's  a  night  job  wiping  in  the  roundhouse.  What 
do  you  say  about  it,  Carleton?  " 

It  was  Marley  who  answered. 

"Yes!"  he  said  fiercely. 

Carleton  jabbed  at  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  with  his 
forefinger  and  his  eyebrows  went  up  at  Marley's  sud- 
den animation.  Marley's  eyes  met  his  with  a  single 
quick  glance,  and  then  the  eyelids  fluttered  down  cov- 
ering them.  There  was  something  in  the  look  that 
caught  the  super,  something  he  couldn't  define.  There 


224     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

was  a  plea,  but  there  was  something  more — like  a 
pledge,  almost,  it  seemed. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  shortly;  then,  nodding  at  Mar- 
ley  in  dismissal :  "  I  hope  you  will  remember  what  I've 
said.  You  may  go." 

Marley  hesitated  as  though  about  to  speak  and 
changed  his  mind,  evidently,  for  he  turned,  walked 
straight  to  the  door  and  out,  then  his  boots  creaked 
down  the  stairs. 

"  He'll  be  away  from  the  men  there,  all  except  a 
few,"  said  the  master  mechanic,  as  though  picking  up 
the  thread  of  a  discussion.  "  And  as  for  them,  I'll  see 
there's  no  trouble.  There's  Mrs.  Coogan  now  that " 

"Yes,  Tommy "— Carleton  smiled  a  little—"! 
didn't  put  your  interest  all  down  to  love  for  Marley." 

'*  What  gets  me,"  muttered  Regan  screwing  up  his 
eyes,  as  his  teeth  met  in  the  plug  he  had  dragged  with 
some  labor  from  his  hip  pocket,  "  what  gets  me  is  the 
way  he  went  to  crying  afterward.  Like  a  kid,  he  was. 
It  was  the  blamedest  thing  I  ever  saw,  what?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he's  responsible  for  himself  when  he 
gets  like  that,"  replied  Carleton.  "That's  exactly 
what  I  am  afraid  of.  It  comes  over  him  in  a  flash, 
making  a  very  demon  of  him,  and  then  the  relaxation 
the  other  way  is  just  as  uncontrollable.  I  don't  suppose 
he  can  help  it,  he's  made  that  way.  It  wouldn't  make 
so  much  difference  in  an  ordinary  man,  but  with 
strength  like  his  " — Carleton  blew  a  ring  of  smoke 
ceilingwards — "  you  saw  what  he  did  to  Boileau." 

"  I  ain't  likely  to  forget  it,"  said  Regan.  "  But  if 
he's  left  alone  I  guess  he'll  be  all  right.  Any  man 


MARLEY  225 

that's  fool  enough  to  do  anything  else  now  will  do  it 
with  his  eyes  open,  and  it's  his  own  funeral." 

Those  of  the  night  crew  in  the  roundhouse  were 
evidently  of  the  same  mind.  They  received  him,  it  is 
true,  with  little  evidence  of  cordiality,  but  their  aloof- 
ness was  decidedly  pronounced,  and  they  looked  ask- 
ance at  the  queer  figure  as  it  dodged  in  and  out  of  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  big  mountain  racers,  or,  at  times, 
stood  silently  by  one  of  the  engine  doors  under  the  dim 
light  of  an  oil  lamp  staring  out  across  the  black  of  the 
turntable  to  the  twinkling  switch  lights  in  the  yard. 
They  didn't  like  him,  but  they  had  learned  their  lesson 
well ;  and,  as  the  weeks  slipped  away,  they  practised  it 
— he  was  to  be  left  alone. 

One  thing  they  grudgingly  admitted — Marley  could 
work,  and  did.  Clarihue,  the  night  turner,  was  man 
enough  to  give  another  his  due  any  time,  no  matter 
what  his  own  personal  feelings  might  be,  and  there 
was  some  talk,  after  a  bit,  between  him  and  the  master 
mechanic  about  Marley  getting  the  next  spare  run 
Hiring. 

Clarihue  even  went  so  far  as  to  hint  at  it  as  a 
possibility  to  Marley,  and  for  his  pains  got  a  surprise 
— he  wasn't  used  to  seeing  the  chance  of  promotion 
turned  down.  Marley  had  shaken  his  head  and  would 
have  none  of  it.  He  was  satisfied  where  he  was.  That 
was  all  there  was  to  that.  Clarihue  drew  back  into  his 
shell  after  that.  Marley  could  wipe  till  his  hair  was 
gray  for  all  he  cared. 

So  Marley  wiped ;  but  at  Mrs.  Coogan's  cottage,  as 
the  summer  waned,  there  wasn't  as  much  washing  done 


226     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

as  there  had  been,  and  the  company  doctor  got  to  drop- 
ping in  too  frequently  to  put  his  visits  down  to  the 
old-time  occasional  friendly  calls  for  an  afternoon 
chat.  And  then,  one  day  in  the  early  fall,  the  washing 
stopped  altogether,  and  the  doctor's  face  was  puckered 
and  serious  as  he  left  the  cottage  and  headed  down 
Main  Street  to  the  station.  He  entered  Carleton's 
office  and,  after  a  few  words  between  them,  the  super 
sent  for  Regan. 

That  evening  Carleton's  private  car  was  waiting  on 
the  siding  when  Number  Two,  the  Eastbound  Limited, 
Chick  Coogan's  old  train,  pulled  in. 

As  the  little  yard  switcher  importantly  coughed  the 
super's  car  on  to  the  rear  Pullman,  Regan,  in  his  Sun- 
day best,  a  store  suit  of  black  twill,  with  boiled  shirt 
and  stiff  collar,  came  out  of  the  station  with  Mrs. 
Coogan  on  his  arm. 

An  incongruous  pair  they  looked.  The  little  old 
lady's  walk  was  in  painful  contrast  to  the  burly  master 
mechanic's  stride — her  short  steps  had  a  painful,  hesi- 
tating, uncertain  waver  to  them.  One  hand  gripped 
tenaciously  at  Regan's  coat-sleeve,  while  the  other  held 
the  faded,  old-fashioned  shawl  close  about  her  thin, 
bent  shoulders.  She  carried  her  head  drooped  for- 
ward a  little,  hiding  the  face  under  the  quaint  poke 
bonnet. 

A  moment  later  Carleton,  too,  emerged  from  the 
station  and  joined  them. 

The  station  hands  and  the  loungers  eyed  the  trio 
with  curiosity,  and  then  stared  in  amazement  as  the 
two  officials  helped  the  old  lady  up  the  steps  of  the 


MARLEY 

private  car — Mrs.  Coogan  was  getting  the  best  of  it, 
whatever  it  meant. 

The  three  disappeared  inside,  but  presently  Regan 
and  Carleton  came  out  again,  and  the  super  dropped  to 
the  station  platform.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
master  mechanic  as  Frank  Knowles,  the  conductor, 
lifted  his  finger  to  Burke  in  the  cab. 

"  Good-by,  Tommy;  and  good  luck,"  he  called,  as 
the  train  began  to  move  out.  "  Don't  hurry,  take  all 
the  time  you  need." 

"  All  right,"  Regan  shouted  back.    "  Good-by." 

Carleton  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  tail  lights 
grow  dimmer  until,  finally,  they  shot  suddenly  out  of 
sight  with  the  curve  of  the  track,  then  he  turned  to 
walk  back  along  the  platform — and  stopped. 

Crouched  back  against  the  wall  of  the  freight  house, 
deep  in  the  shadows,  was  Marley. 

"  Here  you,  Marley,"  Carleton  called. 

Marley,  evidently  believing  himself  to  have  been 
unobserved,  started  violently,  and  then  came  slowly 
forward. 

"What  are  you  hiding  there  for?"  demanded  the 
super. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Coogan  off,"  Marley  an- 
swered a  little  defiantly. 

The  tone  of  the  other's  voice  did  not  please  Carle- 
ton. 

'  You've  a  queer  way  of  doing  it  then,"  he  snapped 
shortly. 

Marley  was  twisting  his  hands,  staring  down  the 
track. 


228     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"  I  said  good-by  before  I  came  down  to  work/' — 
he  spoke  as  though  talking  to  himself. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Carleton,  and  looked  at  Marley  sharply, 
"  I  suppose  you  know  what  she  went  East  for?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Marley  gruffly.  That  was  all— just 
"  yes."  And  with  that  he  turned  abruptly  and  started 
across  the  tracks  for  the  roundhouse. 

Carleton,  taken  aback,  watched  him  in  angry  amaze- 
ment, then  the  scowl  that  had  settled  on  his  face  broke 
in  a  smile,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Guess  Tommy  is  right,"  he  muttered,  as  he  went 
on  toward  the  office.  "  Marley's  all  in  a  class  by  him- 
self. We've  never  had  anything  like  him  in  the  moun- 
tains before." 

It  was  four  days  before  Mrs.  Coogan  and  the 
master  mechanic  came  back.  Days  during  which  Mar- 
ley  slipped  into  Dutchy's  lunch  counter  at  deserted 
moments  for  his  meals,  and,  if  that  were  possible, 
drew  into  himself  closer  than  ever. 

The  boys  were  curious  about  Mrs.  Coogan,  natur- 
ally ;  curious  enough  even  to  question  Marley.  He  had 
one  answer,  only  one.  "  She's  sick,  I  guess,"  he  said. 
They  got  nothing  more  out  of  him  than  that. 

One  thing  Marley  did,  though,  that  Clarihue,  while 
he  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time,  remembered  well 
enough  afterwards.  He  asked  the  turner  to  give  him  a 
sheet  of  railroad  paper  and  a  manila,  and  in  his  spare 
moments  the  night  before  Mrs.  Coogan  came  back  he 
labored,  bent  over  the  little  desk  where  the  engine 
crews  signed  on  and  off,  scratching  painstakingly  with 
a  pen.  Clarihue  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sheet  in  pass- 


MARLEY  229 

ing  before  Marley  hastily  covered  it  up — just  a  glimpse, 
not  enough  to  read  a  single  word,  just  enough  to  mar- 
vel a  little  at  the  wiper's  hand.  Marley  was  a  pretty 
good  penman. 

Marley,  of  course,  being  on  night  duty  slept  day- 
times, but  the  afternoon  Regan  brought  Mrs.  Coogan 
back  to  the  cottage  he  must  have  heard  them  coming, 
for  he  was  standing  in  the  little  sitting-room  when  they 
came  in. 

Mrs.  Coogan  kind  of  hesitated  on  the  threshold, 
then  she  called  out  quickly  in  a  faltering  way : 

"  Marley,  Marley,  is  that  you  ?  " 

Marley  was  twisting  his  hands  nervously.  His  eyes 
shot  a  rapid  glance  from  the  old  lady  to  the  master 
mechanic,  and  then  the  eyelids  fluttered  down. 

"  Sure,"  he  said,  "  it's  me." 

She  stumbled  toward  him  and  burst  into  tears,  cry-* 
ing  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Marley,  Marley,"  she  sobbed,  "  don't  lave  them  do 
ut.  Don't  lave  them  do  ut,  there's  a  good  bhoy,  Mar- 
ley." 

Marley  never  moved,  just  licked  his  lips  with  his 
tongue  and  his  face  grew  whiter.  Queer,  the  way  he 
acted?  Well,  perhaps.  Never  a  move  to  catch  the 
frail,  tottering  figure,  never  a  word  to  soothe  the  piti- 
ful grief.  He  stood  like  a  man  listening  as  a  judge 
pronounces  his  doom.  Oh,  yes,  queer,  if  you  like. 
Marley,  whatever  else  he  was,  was  a  contradictory 
specimen. 

It  was  Regan  who  caught  the  old  lady  in  his  arms, 
and  led  her  gently  into  her  bedroom  off  the  parlor. 


230     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"  You  mustn't  give  way  like  that,  Mrs.  Coogan,"  he 
said  kindly.  "  Just  lie  down  for  a.  spell  and  you'll  feel 
better.  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Dahleen,  next  door,  to  come  in." 

It  took  the  master  mechanic  several  minutes  to  quiet 
her  and  persuade  her  to  do  as  he  asked,  but  when  he 
came  out  again  Marley  was  still  standing,  exactly  as 
before,  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  With  a  black  scowl 
on  his  face,  Regan  motioned  the  other  outside,  and, 
once  on  the  street,  he  laid  the  wiper  low.  Hard 
tongued  was  Regan  when  his  temper  was  aroused  and 
he  did  not  choose  his  words. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  treating  her  like  that,  you 
scrapings  from  the  junk  heap,  you!"  he  exploded. 
'  You  know  well  enough  what  she  went  away  for,  and 
if  youVe  any  brains  in  that  ugly  head  of  yours  you 
know  well  enough  what  she's  come  back  to,  without 
any  printed  instructions  to  help  you  out.  What  are 
you  playing  at,  eh  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  You're  not 
fit  to  associate  with  a  dog!  And  she  the  woman  that 
spent  about  her  all  to  save  your  miserable  carcass,  you 
_you " 

"  You'd  better  stop !  " — the  words  came  like  the 
warning  hiss  of  a  serpent  before  it  strikes.  Marley's 
face  was  livid,  and  his  great  gnarled  hands  were  creep- 
ing slowly  upward  above  his  waist  line. 

With  a  startled  oath,  Regan  leaped  quickly  back :  and 
then,  separated  by  a  yard,  the  men  stood  eying  each 
other  in  silence. 

It  was  gone  in  a  flash  as  it  had  come,  for  Marley, 
with  a  shudder,  dropped  his  hands  limply  to  his  sides, 
and  the  color  crept  slowly  back  into  his  cheeks. 


MARLEY  231 

"There  is  no  chance  for  her?" — no  trace  of  the 
passionate  outburst  of  an  instant  before  remained. 
The  question  came  low,  hesitating — more  like  an  asser- 
tion combined  with  a  wistful  appeal  for  contradiction. 

It  took  Regan  longer  to  recover  himself,  and  it  was 
a  minute  before  he  answered.  Then  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  She'll  be  stone  blind  in  a  month,"  he  said  gruffly. 

Marley's  eyes  came  up  to  the  master  mechanic's— 
and  dropped  instantly  with  their  habitual  little  flut- 
ter. 

"  Ain't  no  doubt,  no  chance  of  a  mistake?  "  he  ven- 
tured. 

Again  Regan  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  a  chance.  The  best  man  we  could  find  East 
made  the  examination.  We're  arranging  to  get  her 
into  an  institute — a  home  for  the  blind  somewhere." 

"  I  thought  you  would  " — Marley's  voice  was  mo- 
notonous. "  That's  what  she  was  talking  about, 
wasn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Regan. 

Marley  wagged  his  head  with  a  judicial  air. 

"  That'll  kill  her,"  he  remarked,  as  though  stating 
a  self-evident,  but  commonplace,  fact.  "  That'll  kill 
her." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will,"  the  master  mechanic  admitted 
gravely.  "  But  there's  nothing  else  to  do.  It's  im- 
possible for  her  to  stay  here.  She's  got  to  have  some 
one  to  look  after  her,  and  she  has  no  money.  God 
knows  I  wish  we  could,  but  we  can't  see  any  other  way 
than  put  her  in  some  place  like  that." 


232     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"  I  thought  you  would  if  it  turned  out  bad/'  said 
Marley  again,  in  dead  tones.  "  I  figured  it  out  that 
way  when  you  were  gone."  His  hands  were  travel- 
ing in  an  aimless  fashion  in  and  out  of  his  pockets. 
Suddenly  he  half  pulled  out  an  envelope,  started,  has- 
tily shoved  it  back,  and  looked  at  Regan.  "  I — I  got  a 
letter  to  post,"  he  muttered. 

"  Well,  supposing  you  have,"  said  Regan  a  little 
savagely — Regan  wasn't  interested  in  letters  just  tHen, 
— "  supposing  you  have,  you  needn't " 

But  Marley  was  well  across  the  street. 

The  master  mechanic  gasped  angrily,  choked — and 
went  into  Mrs.  Dahleen's  cottage  on  his  errand.  It 
was  wasted  breath  to  talk  to  Marley  anyhow. 

It  didn't  take  long  for  the  news  to  spread  around 
Big  Cloud,  and  for  three  days  they  talked  about  Mrs. 
Coogan  pretty  constantly — after  that  they  talked  about 
Marley. 

The  Westbound  Limited  schedules  Big  Cloud  for 
2 :  05  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  the  third  day  after  Mrs. 
Coogan's  return  Marley  came  down  the  street  about 
half-past  one,  and  crossed  the  tracks  to  the  shops. 
Regan  was  in  the  fitting-shop  when  Marley  walked  in. 

"  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Marley,  going 
straight  up  to  the  master  mechanic. 

'''  Well?  "  grunted  Regan,  none  too  cordially. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  come  over  to  Mr.  Carleton's  office 
with  me." 

There  was  something  in  Marley's  voice,  feverish, 
impelling,  something  in  his  face,  that  stopped  the  im- 
patient question  that  sprang  to  Regan's  lips.  He 


MARLEY  233 

looked  at  the  ungainly,  grotesque  figure  of  the  wiper 
for  an  instant  curiously,  then  without  a  word  led  the 
way  out  of  the  shops. 

They  traversed  the  yard  in  silence,  climbed  the  stairs 
in  the  station,  and  entered  the  super's  room.  Marley 
closed  the  door  and  stood  with  his  back  against  it. 

Carleton,  at  his  desk,  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
in  surprise. 

"  Hello,"  said  he.    "  What's  up  ?  " 

The  master  mechanic  jerked  his  thumb  at  Marley, 
and  appropriated  a  chair. 

"  He  wanted  me  to  come  over.  I  don't  know  what 
for." 

Carleton  turned  inquiringly  to  the  wiper. 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

Marley  walked  slowly  across  the  room  until  he 
reached  the  super's  desk.  His  face  was  drawn,  and 
he  wet  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"  It's  about  Mrs.  Coogan,"  he  said  jerkily.  "  Five 
thousand  would  be  enough,  wouldn't  it?  " 

Carleton  stared  at  the  man  as  though  he  were  mad, 
and  Regan  hitched  his  chair  suddenly  forward. 

"  Will  you  swear  to  give  it  to  her  if  I  get  it  for 
you?  " — Marley 's  hand,  clenched,  was  on  the  desk,  and 
he  leaned  his  body  far  forward  toward  the  super. 
There  was  no  flutter  of  the  eyelids  now,  and  his  eyes 
stared  into  Carleton's  without  a  flicker.  "  Swear  it! " 
he  cried  fiercely. 

Carleton  drew  back  involuntarily. 

"  Marley,"  he  said  soothingly,  "  you're  not  yourself, 
you " 


234     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

"  No,  I'm  not  mad/'  Marley  broke  in  passionately. 
"  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I  know  she'd  die  in 
one  of  them  charity  places.  It's  up  to  me.  She  treated 
me  white — the  only  soul  on  God's  earth  that  ever  did. 
And  maybe,  maybe  too,  it'll  help  square  accounts. 
You'll  play  fair  and  swear  she  gets  the  money,  won't 
you?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Carleton  slowly;  "but 
I'll  swear  to  give  her  anything  you  have  to  give." 

Marley  nodded  quickly. 

"  That's  all  I  want,"  he  said.  "  There  ain't  much 
to  understand."  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  brought 
out  a  newspaper  clipping,  a  column  long,  which  he 
laid  on  the  desk.  "  I  guess  you'll  get  it  all  there." 

The  heavy  "  set  "  of  the  heading  leaped  up  at  Carle- 
ton.  "  $5,000  REWARD."  Below,  halfway  down 
the  column,  was  the  reproduction  of  a  photograph — 
Marley's. 

Regan  was  up  from  his  chair,  bending  over  the 
super's  shoulder. 

"  I  thought  I'd  seen  you  somewhere  before  " — Carle- 
ton's  voice  sounded  strained  and  hollow  in  his  own 
ears.  "  It  must  have  been  the  picture.  I  remember 
now.  You — you  killed  a  man  in  Denver  a  year  ago." 

"  It's  all  there,"  said  Marley,  licking  his  lips  again. 
"  I  never  saw  him  before.  I  killed  him  like  I  almost 
killed  Boileau  this  summer.  I  didn't  know  till  after- 
ward that  he  was  rich,  not  until  the  family  hung  out 
that  reward." 

Carleton  did  not  speak.  Regan  reached  viciously 
for  his  plug.  Marley  stirred  uneasily,  and  drew  the 


MARLEY  235 

back  of  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  It  came  away 
soggy  wet.  In  the  silence  the  chime  of  the  Limited's 
whistle  floated  in  through  the  open  window,  then, 
presently,  the  roar  of  the  train  and  the  grinding  shriek 
of  the  brake-shoes. 

"  My  God,"  said  Carleton  in  a  whisper,  "  you  want 
me  to  give  you  up  and  get  the  reward — for  her !  " 

A  queer  smile  flickered  across  Marley's  face.  Heavy 
steps  came  running  up  the  stairs.  There  was  a  smart 
rap  upon  the  door  and  a  man  stepped  quickly  inside. 
For  a  second  his  eyes  swept  the  little  group.  Then  he 
whirled  like  a  flash,  and  the  blue-black  muzzle  of  a 
revolver  held  a  bead  on  Marley's  heart. 

"  Ah,  Shorty,"  he  cried  grimly,  "  we've  got  you  at 
last,  eh  ?  Put  out  your  hands !  " 

Without  protest,  with  the  same  queer  smile  on  his 
face,  Marley  obeyed.  There  was  a  little  click  of  steel, 
and  he  dropped  his  locked  wrists  before  him. 

'( You're  Mr.  Carleton,  aren't  you?" — the  new- 
comer had  swung  to  the  desk. 

"  Yes,"  said  Carleton  numbly. 

"  I'm  Hepburn  of  the  Denver  police,"  went  on  the 
officer.  "  We  appreciate  this,  Mr.  Carleton.  Shorty 
here  has  been  badly  wanted  for  a  long  time.  We  got 
your  letter  yesterday." 

Hepburn  paused  to  reach  into  his  pocket,  and  in  the 
pause  Carleton's  eyes  met  Marley's — and  he  under- 
stood. Marley  had  written  the  letter  himself  and 
signed  his,  Carleton's,  name.  And,  too,  it  was  clear 
enough  now,  the  telegram  he  had  puzzled  over  the  pre- 
vious afternoon.  It  was  lying  before  him  on  his  desk. 


236     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

His  eyes  dropped  to  it.  "  Will  be  on  hand  on  arrival 
of  Limited,  (signed)  Denver." 

;<  We  can't  give  you  any  receipt  for  him  as  you  re- 
quested/' continued  Hepburn,  drawing  a  paper  out  of 
his  pocket ;  "  but  here's  an  acknowledgment  that  his 
capture  is  due  to  information  furnished  by  you.  I 
guess  that  will  answer  the  purpose.  You  won't  have 
any  trouble  getting  the  reward."  He  handed  the  paper 
to  Carleton. 

The  super  took  it  mechanically,  and  started  as  it 
crackled  in  his  fingers. 

"  Now,"  said  Hepburn  briskly,  "  I  don't  want  to 
appear  abrupt,  but  there's  a  local  East  at  two-twenty. 
We'll  move  along,  Shorty.  Good-by,  Mr.  Carleton. 
Next  time  you're  in  Denver  look  us  up."  He  took 
Marley's  arm  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Don't — tell  her,  Mr.  Carleton  " — there  was  a  catch 
in  Marley's  voice,  and  the  words  came  low. 

Carleton  did  not  answer.  He  was  staring  at  the 
paper  in  his  hand — Marley's  price. 

Regan  had  turned  his  back,  with  a  hasty  movement 
of  his  fist  to  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  tell  her  " — the  plea  came  again  from  the 
doorway. 

Carleton  tried  to  speak  and  his  voice  broke,  then 
he  cleared  his  throat. 

"  She  will  never  know,  Marley,"  he  said  huskily. 


X 

THE  MAN!  WHO  DIDN'T  COUNT 

HE  was  a  little  gray-haired  hostler,  wiper,  sweeper, 
assistant  night  man  in  the  roundhouse  at  Big  Cloud, 
anything  you  like,  and  this  is  the  story  he  told  me  one 
night,  leaning  against  the  blackened  jamb  of  one  of 
the  big  doors,  wiping  his  hands  occasionally  upon  a 
hunk  of  greasy  waste. 

They  were  a  rough  lot  out  in  the  mountains  in  the 
days  when  the  Hill  Division  was  shaking  her  steel  into 
something  like  a  permanent  right  of  way — a  pretty 
rough  lot.  The  railroaders  because  they  had  to  be; 
the  rest  because  they  were  just  that  way  naturally. 
Miners  and  Indians  made  up  the  citizenship  mostly, 
and  there's  no  worse  mixture.  They've  got  the  red- 
skins corralled  on  reserves  now ;  but  they  hadn't  then, 
and  it  didn't  take  more  than  one  bad  word  and  one 
drop  of  bad  whisky  to  set  things  in  lively  motion. 

There's  a  few  highfaluting  poems,  and  some  other 
things,  about  the  noble  red  man  that  works  you  up 
so  when  you  read  them  that  you  get  to  wishing  the 
Almighty  had  seen  fit  to  let  you  be  a  red  man,  too. 
Well,  that's  all  right  in  its  way  because,  after  you've 
rubbed  elbows  with  some  of  the  real  thing,  you  real- 
ize that  the  world  owes  the  poets  a  living  just  as  much 

237 


238     ON    THE    IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

as  it  does  anybody  else,  and  that  what  they  say  has  to 
sound  good;  so  you  just  come  to  keep  the  cautionary 
signals  up  by  instinct,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

But,  to  give  the  poets  their  due,  there's  one  thing 
they  never  trip  up  on,  and  that's  the  Indian's  com- 
pound efficiency  for  smell.  The  Indian  can  smell. 
When  he  sticks  out  his  chest,  faces  southeast,  and  be- 
gins to  draw  in  the  God-given  mountain  air,  you're 
free  to  bet  that  the  distilleries  down  Kentucky  way  are 
doing  enough  business  to  make  regular  dividend  checks 
a  sure  thing.  That's  generally  good  whisky.  Bad 
whisky,  in  smell  and  otherwise,  carries  farther — and 
it's  only  fifteen  miles  from  here  to  Coyote  Bend! 

Coyote  Bend  wasn't  even  a  pin  prick  on  the  engi- 
neers' blue  prints  when  they  mapped  out  the  right  of 
way,  and  there  wasn't  any  such  place  wrhen  the  steel 
was  all  spiked  down  until  the  day  some  wandering 
prospector  staked  out  a  bunch  of  claims — and  the  news 
spread. 

Gold  in  the  Rockies  ?  No ;  there's  never  been  much 
of  it  found,  but  there's  an  all-fired  big  superstition 
that  the  mother  lode  of  the  whole  country  is  tucked 
away  here  somewhere.  That's  why,  in  two  days,  the 
wilderness  and  a  gurgling  stream  that  trickled  peace- 
fully down  through  a  high-walled  canon  became  Coy- 
ote Bend;  and  that's  why  the  local  freight  began  to 
make  regular  stops  to  dump  off  supplies  alongside  the 
track.  There  was  no  station,  of  course,  no  agent,  no 
nothing;  the  stuff  was  just  dumped,  that's  all.  The 
consignees  picked  out  their  goods  if  they  could  read, 
or  guessed  at  it  if  they  couldn't. 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     239 

Maybe  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  before;  any- 
way, I'll  stick  it  in  now.  There  are  three  men  that 
figure  in  this  story,  though  one  of  them  doesn't  count 
for  much.  He  was  a  young  chap  named  Charlie  Lee. 
A  graduate  of  an  Eastern  college  he  was,  and  all  he 
had  to  his  name  was  his  diploma  and  the  clothes  he 
stood  in  when  he  hit  the  West.  He  struck  the  super 
for  a  job,  and  he  got  it — braking  on  the  local  freight. 
Hell  for  a  man  like  him,  eh?  Well,  it  was,  in  more 
ways  than  one!  Anyway,  from  that  day  to  this  it 
was  the  best  job  he  ever  held  down  long  enough  to 
draw  a  second  month's  pay  check. 

The  other  two  were  Matt  Perley  and  Faro  Clancy — 
"  Breed  "  Clancy,  they  called  him  behind  his  back. 

Perley  was  a  very  good  sort,  pretty  straight,  pretty 
clean,  measuring  by  the  standards  out  here  in  those 
days;  a  little  bit  of  a  sawed-off,  blond-haired,  blue- 
eyed  man,  full  of  grit  inside,  and  an  out-and-out  rail- 
road man — only  a  freight  conductor,  conductor  on  the 
local,  but  he  knew  his  business;  he'd  have  gone  up, 
'way  up,  in  time. 

Clancy  was  a  hellion,  there's  no  other  name  for  him, 
and  even  that  doesn't  express  it — no  one  word  could. 
Indian  one  way,  Irish  the  other.  He  looked  mostly 
Indian;  the  Irish  came  out  in  the  brogue.  Black, 
swarthy,  small  eyes  like  needle  points,  coarse  dry  hair 
that  straggled  down  over  his  eyebrows,  a  hulking  bony 
frame  with  the  strength  of  a  wrecking  crane — that's 
Clancy,  Breed  Clancy. 

Oh,  yes,  he  was  slick,  slick  as  they're  made — with 
his  hands.  Faro,  stud  poker,  dice,  anything — it  was 


240     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

his  business;  that,  and  running  booze  joints.  Mining 
camps  and  brand-new  boom  towns  were  Clancy's  meat 
mostly — after  Perley  drove  him  out  of  Big  Cloud. 

Don't  ask  me.  I  don't  know  what  there  was  be- 
tween them.  That  was  before  my  time.  A  woman 
probably — a  woman's  generally  blamed  anyhow.  Any- 
way, one  night  Perley  got  the  drop  on  Breed  and 
marched  him  down  the  street  in  front  of  his  pistol 
and  out  of  the  town.  After  that,  Clancy  kept  away 
from  Big  Cloud.  As  I  say,  that  part  was  before  my 
time.  I  only  know  there  was  bad  blood  between  them ; 
wicked  bad  blood  on  one  side,  as  you'll  see.  Clancy 
disappeared  from  Big  Cloud,  and  the  two  didn't  foul 
each  other  again  until  Coyote  Bend  started. 

Breed  Clancy  hit  the  Bend  with  the  first  inrush  of 
the  miners,  and  before  any  of  them  had  time  to  much 
more  than  get  a  pick  into  the  ground  he  was  busy 
knocking  together  a  bit  of  a  shack  he  called  a  hotel, 
and  was  ordering  the  furnishings — liquid  furnishings, 
you  understand — from  Big  Cloud. 

There  were  three  barrels  of  it,  the  hardest  kind  of 
fire  water  that  ever  went  into  the  mountains  waybilled 
to  Clancy  at  Coyote  Bend  by  the  local,  on  the  first 
trip  that  Charlie  Lee  ever  made  with  Matt  Perley. 
I'm  getting  back  to  Lee  now,  you  see. 

Well,  it  was  about  noon  when  they  whistled  for  the 
Bend  that  day,  and  Lee,  riding  the  brake  wheels  on 
the  front  end,  could  see  about  a  dozen  "  blankets  " 
squatting  alongside  the  right  of  way  about  where  the 
train  would  stop.  Grouped  behind  these  were  a  num- 
ber of  stragglers  from  the  camp,  among  whom  was  a 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     241 

big  fellow  in  a  red  shirt  you  could  see  farther  than  a 
semaphore  arm. 

Now,  I  don't  say  those  Indians  were  attracted  by 
the  gold  rush  to  Coyote  Bend.  Coyote  Bend,  or  any 
other  place,  old  or  new,  stale  or  prosperous,  would  get 
its  share  of  the  redskins.  Where  they  came  from  or 
where  they  went  nobody  knew.  They'd  drop  in  from 
nowhere,  and,  if  they  liked  the  place,  they'd  grunt  and 
settle  down  for  a  spell;  if  they  didn't  like  it,  they'd 
grunt,  in  benediction  or  otherwise,  and  leave. 

I'm  not  saying  they  smelled  the  whisky  in  that  train. 
I'm  not  saying  they  knew  Clancy  was  importing  fire 
water,  and  they  were  just  there  to  feast  their  eyes  on 
the  barrels  and  meditate  on  what  was  inside.  I'm  not 
saying  anything  at  all  about  that,  or  what  followed. 
There's  only  one  man  that  perhaps  might  have  ex- 
plained it — I  say  "  perhaps  "  because  he  never  did ; 
and  also,  because  he  knew  Indian  nature  as  well  as  any 
white  man  in  the  West.  That  was  Perley. 

Whether  Perley  even  knew  that  Clancy  was  at  the 
Bend  or  not,  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  he  could 
have  known  it  if  he'd  bothered  to  read  the  waybills ;  and 
it  was  likewise  on  the  cards  that  he  might  have  learned 
the  day  before,  down  at  Big  Cloud,  that  the  whisky 
was  going  up  the  following  morning.  I  don't  know, 
and  that's  straight.  Sometimes  I  think  he  did;  some- 
times I  think  he  didn't.  I  don't  know. 

Anyway,  Lee  slid  to  the  ground  as  the  train  stopped, 
and  went  back  to  the  car  that  held  the  consignment  for 
the  Bend.  As  he  fumbled  with  the  door,  he  got  a 
whiff  of  raw  spirit  that  nearly  knocked  him  over.  And 


242     ON   THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

then,  right  behind  him,  rose  a  chorus  of  appreciative 
"ughs!" 

I  told  you  an  Indian  could  smell  whisky,  but  I  didn't 
tell  you  why.  It's  his  ruling  passion.  That's  straight. 
I'm  not  judging  the  Indian ;  the  taste  was  born  in  him. 
There  are  some  white  men  just  as  bad.  I'm  not  judg- 
ing them,  either.  Some  drink  for  the  same  reason  the 
Indian  does,  some  for  others,  and  some — some  men 
drink  because  they  have  to. 

What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes,  Lee  getting  that 
whiff.  Well,  before  he  got  the  door  unfastened,  the 
man  in  the  red  shirt  had  pushed  through  the  Indians 
and  come  up  beside  him. 

"  Me  name's  Clancy,"  said  he.  "  Did  yez  bring  up 
any  stuff  for  me?" 

"  There's  three  barrels  for  somebody,"  replied  Lee, 
and  slid  open  the  door — and  the  next  minute  he  had 
jumped  back  with  a  yell,  colliding  with  Clancy. 

"  Ugh !  "  ejaculated  the  apparition  that  confronted 
him. 

"  He's  drunk !  Majestically  drunk !  An'  on  my 
stuff!"  roared  Clancy;  and  then,  turning  fiercely  on 
Lee :  "  Fwhat  did  ye  let  him  in  there  for,  eh  ?  Fwhat 
did  ye  let  him  in  for,  ye  mealy-faced  little " 

"  Let  him  in  nothing !  "  retorted  Lee,  getting  back 
his  grip  on  himself.  "  Here,  you,  get  out — and  quick!  " 

The  Indian  blinked  gravely,  but  never  moved.  He 
sat  cross-legged  on  the  floor,  exactly  in  the  middle  of 
the  car  between  the  doors,  swaying  slightly  backward 
and  forward.  Beside  him,  up-ended  and  broached, 
was  one  of  Clancy's  kegs.  The  car  reeked  with  the 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     243 

smell  of  it,  for  of  the  half  kegful  that  had  gushed  out 
what  hadn't  gone  into  the  Indian  had  gone  on  to  the 
floor. 

The  half-breed  was  raving  mad.  I've  a  notion  some- 
times the  man  wasn't  human  at  all.  He  had  his  hand 
on  Lee's  throat  when  Perley  came  running  up  from 
the  rear  end. 

"  What's  the  row  ?  "  he  began,  and  then  he  stopped. 
He  was  a  cool  devil  was  Perley,  and  he  never  turned 
a  hair  as  he  stepped  between  the  two  men.  "  Ah, 
Clancy,  it's  you,  is  it,  you  copper-faced  renegade?  " 
— no  loud  talk,  no  bluster,  he  didn't  raise  his  voice; 
but  his  insult,  the  worst  he  could  have  laid  his  tongue 
to,  cut  like  the  sting  of  a  lash. 

Clancy  swung  around  like  a  flash — and  stared  into 
the  muzzle  of  the  conductor's  .45.  His  hands  were 
clenching  and  unclenching  as  he  recognized  Perley, 
and  the  cords  in  his  neck  swelled  into  knotty  lumps, 

"  Ut's  your  worrk,  this  job,  is  ut  ? "  he  snarled. 
"  Some  day,  Perley,  I'll  show  you." 

Queer,  you  say,  he'd  act  like  that — nothing  to  war- 
rant it.  Well,  maybe.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know 
what  was  between  them  before;  but  I  do  know  the 
awful  deviltry  of  Breed  Clancy,  and  I  know  that  Lee, 
leaning  back  against  the  car,  shivered  at  the  look  that 
passed  between  the  two  of  them. 

Perley  cut  the  half-breed  short  off.  "  Once,"  said 
he  contemptuously,  still  quiet,  not  a  tone  raised,  and 
his  voice  the  more  deadly  for  it,  "  once,  perhaps  you'll 
remember,  I  warned  you  to  keep  out  of  my  road.  Lee, 
how'd  that  Indian  get  in  the  car?  " 


244     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lee. 

"  Well,  then,  throw  him  out,"  said  Perley  shortly, 
snapping  his  watch  with  his  free  hand.  "  We  can't 
stay  here  all  day." 

This  little  ruction  between  Perley  and  the  half-breed 
has  taken  me  longer  to  tell  it,  I  guess,  than  it  did  to 
happen.  Anyway,  it  didn't  cause  the  excitement  you 
might  think  it  would.  The  "  blankets  "  were  too  busy 
drinking  in  the  smell  of  that  whisky  to  let  their  hungry 
eyes  wander  very  far  from  anywhere  but  the  open  door 
of  that  car.  And  as  for  the  stragglers,  by  the  time 
they'd  caught  on  to  the  fact  that  there  was  something 
on  the  boards  besides  that  drunken  Indian,  Perley,  with 
the  same  cool  contempt,  had  slipped  his  gun  back  in  his 
pocket  and  was  boosting  Lee  into  the  car. 

The  Indian  offered  no  opposition  as  Lee  tackled 
him.  He  couldn't — he  was  beyond  all  that — he  was 
so  full  of  dead-eye  it  was  oozing  out  by  the  pores.  He 
just  sat  there,  and  Lee  slid  him  to  the  door  just  as  he 
was,  still  sitting,  and  dropped  him  out.  He  struck  the 
ground  with  a  thud,  rebounded  a  foot,  rolled  over, 
grunted,  and  lay  like  a  log.  There  was  a  guffaw  from 
the  camp  stragglers,  and  a  deep  and  envious  chorus 
of  "  Ughs !  "  from  the  "  blankets." 

No,  I'm  not  joking — it's  a  long  way  from  a  joke,  as 
you'll  see.  They  were  envious.  It  acted  like  a  red 
rag  on  a  bull — the  possibility  of  attaining  the  condi- 
tion, the  state  of  heavenly  bliss,  that  had  been  reached 
by  their  red  brother,  do  you  understand  ? 

Clancy  wasn't  laughing.  He  stood  where  Perley  had 
left  him,  sullen  and  with  twitching  face.  I  don't  know, 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     245 

I  think  it  was  Parley's  sheer  nerve  that  kept  the  half- 
breed  from  drawing  and  shooting  the  conductor  when 
his  back  was  turned.  I  don't  know — brute  beast  cowed 
by  the  human  mind,  perhaps.  No  one  ever  knew  Breed 
Clancy.  He  had  his  yellow  streak  at  times,  and  then 
again  the  blood  that  was  in  him  made  him  worse  than 
a  frenzied  madman.  Yes,  I  guess  it  was  a  case  of 
"  brute  "  all  right,  for  there  was  no  cowing  him  when 
the  frenzy  was  on  him. 

Perley  wasn't  laughing,  either.  He  was  opening 
and  shutting  his  watch  impatiently.  "  Come  on !  Come 
on ! "  he  cried  at  Lee.  "  Get  those  barrels  out. 
We've  got  to  cross  Number  Two  at  the  Creek.  It'll 
be  the  carpet  for  ours  if  we  hold  her  up." 

Lee  grabbed  the  broached  cask  and  edged  it  toward 
the  doorway.  The  contents  slopped  and  sloshed  inside 
as  he  moved  it,  and  occasionally  a  little  of  the  stuff 
would  spill  out  through  the  bunghole.  Then,  some- 
how, just  as  he  got  it  to  the  door,  his  hold  slipped,  out 
it  went,  bounded  on  the  edge  of  the  ties,  and  then  went 
down  the  embankment  right  into  the  hands  of  those 
squatting  "  blankets."  They  didn't  squat  long;  I  don't 
need  to  tell  you  that.  They  were  on  it  in  a  mob,  and 
they  got  the  taste — they'd  had  the  smell — and  the  fill 
was  to  come  presently. 

Clancy  was  cursing  in  streams;  and  no  fouler- 
mouthed  man  than  Clancy  ever  lived.  He  tried  once 
to  get  the  Indians  off  the  barrel,  and  the  stragglers 
backed  him  up  half-heartedly.  You  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  move  that  mogul  on  the  pit  there  behind 
you.  He  didn't  try  but  once,  then  he  fell  back  on 


246     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

cursing  again,  and  Parley  was  the  target  for  most 
of  it. 

Perley?  He  never  answered  him,  but  his  face  grew 
harder  and  harder — and  his  gun  was  in  his  hand  again. 
:'  Throw  out  those  other  two  barrels !  "  he  snapped  at 
Lee. 

'The  redskins  will  get  every  last  drop  if  I  do," 
objected  Lee,  hesitating. 

"  Owner's  risk.  We've  no  station  here.  Throw 
'em  out !  "  repeated  Perley,  grimmer  than  before,  only 
this  time  loud  enough  for  Clancy  to  hear  him. 

"  Ye  do,"  roared  the  half-breed,  "  ye  do,  an'  I'll 
worse  than  murdher  ye  one  of  these " 

'  Throw  'em  out !  "  said  Perley  quietly,  waving  the 
go-ahead  signal  to  the  engine  crew. 

And  out  they  went — down  the  embankment  after 
the  first. 

Lee  jumped  to  the  ground  and  banged  the  door  shut, 
just  as  the  drawbars  began  to  snap  tight  along  the  train 
and  the  local  jolted  into  motion.  He  waited  beside 
Perley  to  swing  the  caboose  as  it  came  up.  And  while 
he  waited  he  watched  and  grinned. 

Funny?  I  don't  know;  it  depends  on  the  way  you 
look  at  it,  depends  on  what  you  call  fun.  Lee  thought 
it  was  funny — then.  The  air  was  full  of  curses,  In- 
dian yells,  shouts,  oaths;  and  there  was  one  jumbled 
mess  of  arms,  and  legs,  and  barrels.  The  Indians 
were  after  their  fill,  and  this  time  Clancy  and  the  strag- 
glers were  in  the  game  for  keeps. 

Up  ahead  the  engine  crew  hung  grinning  out  of  the 
gangway.  Behind,  the  other  brakeman  was  occupy- 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     247 

ing  a  reserved  seat  on  the  top  of  the  caboose.  A  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away  over  by  the  camp,  men,  attracted  by 
the  shouting,  were  beginning  to  run  toward  the  track. 
Inconsistent  kind  of  a  mix-up,  eh? — Indians,  miners, 
whisky  barrels,  and  railroaders.  I  don't  know ;  call  it 
funny  if  you  like,  though  perhaps  you  can  size  it  up 
better  when  I'm  through. 

By  this  time  the  caboose  was  up  to  where  Perley  and 
Lee  were  standing.  Perley  motioned  Lee  aboard,  and 
then  swung  on  himself. 

Just  as  he  did  so,  Clancy's  red  shirt  loomed  up  out  of 
the  melee,  his  arm  lifted,  and  over  the  clack  of  the  car 
trucks  pounding  the  steel  came  the  tinkle  of  breaking 
glass  from  the  shattered  pane  in  the  door — the  bullet 
had  passed  between  the  heads  of  the  two  men  on  the 
platform,  missing  them  by  a  hair's  breadth.  Another 
shot  followed  the  first,  another  and  another,  danger- 
ously close;  splintering  the  woodwork  around  them; 
and  then  Perley  fired.  The  half-breed  spun  round 
like  a  top,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  face  and  pitched 
over. 

Then  the  curve  of  the  track  shut  out  the  scene,  but 
for  five  minutes  after  they  were  out  of  sight  they  still 
got  the  whoops  of  the  redskins,  the  shouts  and  curses 
of  the  miners,  and  the  crackle  of  guns  like  the  quick 
fire  of  a  Catling.  You  see  it  came  to  that  before  it  was 
through,  and  there  was  some  blood  spilled — a  lot  of  it 
— and,  not  counting  Clancy's,  it  wasn't  all  "  blanket  '* 
blood,  either. 

Clancy?  I'm  coming  to  him.  No,  he  wasn't  killed 
— if  he  had  been  I'd  never  be  telling  you  this  story. 


248     ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

It  was  two  or  three  days  before  Lee  and  Perley  got 
the  details  of  what  happened.  The  redskins  fought 
like  fiends  after  the  miners  began  to  fire  on  them  and 
had  killed  one  or  two,  and,  though  they  were  finally 
subdued,  the  casualties,  as  I've  said,  weren't  all  on 
their  side  by  a  hanged  sight. 

But  I  was  talking  about  Clancy.  Well,  that  bullet 
of  Perley's  caught  him  on  the  cheek  bone,  glanced  in, 
plowed  through  his  left  eye,  and  landed  up  some- 
where against  the  cartilage  of  his  nose — a  bullet  will 
make  queer  tracks  sometimes,  worse  than  surveyors 
by  a  heap.  They  got  him  down  to  Big  Cloud  to  a  doc- 
tor's, and  before  he  was  half  cured  he  disappeared. 
They  had  a  sort  of  makeshift  hospital  here  in 
those  days,  and  when  I  say  "  disappeared  "  I  mean 
they  found  his  bed  empty  one  morning,  that  was 
all. 

I  told  you  I  didn't  know  whether  Perley  had  any 
hand  in  putting  that  Indian  in  the  car,  or  the  other  red- 
skins at  the  Bend.  I  don't.  I  told  you  I  didn't  know 
what  was  between  him  and  the  half-breed  before  all 
this  happened.  I  don't.  Perley  never  said.  But  day 
after  day  as  he  and  Lee  pounded  up  and  down  on  the 
local  through  the  mountains,  he  began  to  grow  silent 
and  moody. 

Lee,  young  Lee  then,  was  the  only  one  that  could 
get  anywhere  near  the  inside  of  his  vest.  He  took  to 
Lee,  and  Lee  liked  him;  but  even  Lee  had  his  limits 
when  it  came  to  confidences.  There  was  lots  Perley 
never  opened  his  lips  about.  No,  I  don't  know  as  it 
makes  much  difference  now. 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     249 

Lee  was  the  first  of  the  two  to  hear  that  Faro 
Clancy  was  "  loose."  "  It  looks  to  me  like  a  bad  busi- 
ness," he  said,  after  telling  Perley  the  news. 

Perley's  eyes  just  narrowed  a  little.  "  It  looks  more 
like  a  bad  shot,  a  rotten  bad  shot,"  he  answered  evenly. 

"That,  if  you  like,"  returned  Lee;  "but  there'll  be 
more  to  follow." 

"  One  would  think  you  kneiv  Clancy,"  said  Perley, 
cool  as  ever. 

Lee  was  anxious.  Call  it  presentiment  or  what  you 
like,  from  that  moment  the  thing  was  on  his  nerves. 
Perley  had  been  pretty  good  to  him ;  had  made  things 
a  heap  easier  for  the  young  fellow,  green  and  raw  as 
he  was,  in  a  hundred  different  ways.  Things  like  that 
mean  something. 

"  Look  here,  Perley,"  said  he,  "  I've  heard  some 
talk,  and  I  know  there's  something  behind  all  this  be- 
tween you  and  that  devil.  I'm  not  asking  for  con- 
fidences—" 

Perley  cut  him  short,  and  caught  him  almost  angrily 
by  the  shoulder.  "  Don't  meddle !  "  he  snapped.  "  Let 
it  drop.  You  don't  count  in  this,  whatever  happens. 
Your  being  at  the  Bend  that  day  was  an  accident. 
What's  between  me  and  Clancy  concerns  ourselves. 
You  don't  count.  Unless  you're  looking  for  another 
run  besides  the  local,  just  remember  that  and  don't 
meddle." 

That  was  all.  Lee  never  mentioned  it  to  Perley 
again.  Perley  was  right,  wasn't  he  ?  I  told  you  there 
were  three  men  in  this  story,  but  that  one  of  them 
didn't  count.  No,  Lee  didn't  count.  Why  should  he? 


250     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG   CLOUD 

What  did  he  have  to  do  with  it?  Perley  was  right,  I 
leave  it  to  you. 

You've  been  over  the  division,  and  you  know  the 
Devil's  Slide  just  west  of  the  Gap  from  here.  You 
know  the  grade — the  worst  in  the  mountains.  The 
trains  crawl  up  at  the  pace  a  man  could  walk,  be- 
cause they  can't  go  any  faster;  and  they  crawl  down 
just  as  slowly,  because  they  don't  dare  do  anything 
else. 

I've  seen  the  passengers  get  off  the  observation  and 
walk — so  have  you.  Done  it  yourself  probably?  I 
thought  so.  Extra  engine  on  the  rear  end  to  push  or 
hold  back,  and  one  in  the  middle  if  the  train's  heavy, 
to  keep  it  from  breaking  apart — lessens  the  drawbar 
pull,  you  know.  They're  tunneling  now  to  do  away 
with  that  particular  grade,  but  that's  nothing  to  do 
with  this  story,  nor,  for  that  matter,  with  the  night, 
some  six  weeks  after  that  business  at  the  Bend,  when 
the  local,  eastbound,  was  climbing  the  Devil's  Slide. 

It  was  a  dirty  night  outside  the  caboose.  A  storm 
had  been  racketing  through  the  mountains  all  after- 
noon, and  by  the  time  it  got  dark  it  was  a  howling 
gale,  raining  hard  enough  to  float  the  ties. 

Lee's  place  was  on  the  front  end,  going  up  that  bit 
of  track,  but  he  wasn't  well  that  night,  and  the  other 
brakeman  was  doing  his  snatch.  Touch  of  mountain 
fever,  or  something,  nothing  serious;  just  enough  to 
make  him  shiver  and  boil  alternately  over  the  little 
stove  in  the  caboose,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door. 
Up  above  him  in  the  cupola,  holding  down  the  swivel 
chair  where  he  could  watch  the  train — that  is,  see  his 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     251 

engine  fling  up  the  sparks,  for  that's  about  all  he  could 
see,  I  guess — was  Perley. 

The  car  was  swinging  like  a  hammock  with  the 
heave  and  strain  of  the  big  pusher  coupled  right  behind 
it — it  acts  queer,  that  does.  Every  time  I've  felt  it  I've 
always  thought  of  a  cat  and  a  mouse.  It's  like  the  en- 
gine had  the  caboose  by  the  scruff  and  was  trying  to 
shake  the  life  out  of  it. 

You've  felt  it  a  little  if  you've  ever  been  in  the  rear 
Pullman  going  up — the  difference  is  that  a  caboose 
hasn't  any  springs  to  speak  of,  you  understand? 
Racket  enough  to  raise  the  dead.  You  couldn't  hear 
yourself  think.  Not  so  much  from  the  noise  of  the 
train  or  the  storm,  but  from  the  booming  roar  of  the 
trailer's  exhaust — like  she  was  trying  to  cough  her 
boiler  tubes  out  every  time  the  valves  slid. 

Now,  there's  just  one  more  thing  I  want  you  to  get. 
The  engine  crew  of  a  pusher  naturally  can't  see  any 
track,  road-bed,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  and  it  isn't 
their  business  to,  either.  All  they  watch  is  the  leader 
and  the  intermediate,  if  there  is  one.  Their  headlight 
plays  along  over  a  few  cars  if  it's  high  enough,  or  loses 
itself  on  the  top  of  the  door  or  the  roof  of  the  caboose 
if  it  isn't,  understand? 

Lee  didn't  hear  anything.  He  was  sitting  bent  over 
with  his  head  between  his  hands,  and  it  was  the  current 
of  air  from  the  opening  door  that  made  him  twist 
around  and  look  up,  thinking  it  had  blown  open.  I 
don't  know  as  you'd  call  him  a  coward;  maybe  yes, 
maybe  no ;  anyway,  he  was  a  white-faced,  terrified  man 
that  next  instant,  as  he  started  up  from  his  chair.  He 


252     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

never  got  to  his  feet.  Instead,  he  shut  up  like  a  jack- 
knife,  and  went  down  to  the  floor  with  a  blow  over 
the  head  from  a  revolver  butt  that  knocked  him  sense- 
less. 

It  all  happened  in  a  second,  but  in  that  second  Lee 
got  it  with  more  vividness  than  a  thousand  hours 
would  have  given  him — the  great,  hulking  figure,  the 
water  trickling  to  the  floor  in  little  pools  from  the  drip- 
ping clothes,  the  sickly  pallor  of  the  face,  the  thin  new 
skin  of  the  livid  scar  across  the  cheek,  the  sightless  eye 
— Clancy. 

Lee  couldn't  have  lain  unconscious  more  than  twenty 
minutes,  perhaps  it  was  only  fifteen,  for  it  takes  about 
forty  minutes  to  climb  the  four  miles  of  the  Slide,  you 
see.  Call  it  twenty,  that  allows  for  what  happened  be- 
fore and  what  happened  after.  When  he  came  to  his 
senses  the  light  in  the  bracket  lamp  was  out ;  blown  out 
by  the  draft,  for  the  door  was  open.  A  stray  beam 
or  two  from  the  pusher's  headlight  filled  the  caboose 
with  an  uncertain,  wavering  light — from  the  jolt  and 
swing,  you  know,  though  Lee  thought  at  first  it  was 
his  head. 

He  tried  to  get  up,  but  he  couldn't  move.  He  was 
bound  hand  and  foot,  laid  out  on  the  flat  of  his  back — 
helpless.  For  a  minute  he  was  too  dazed  to  under- 
stand, then  he  remembered — Clancy.  He  stared  up 
into  the  cupola  above  him.  The  swivel  chair  was 
empty — Perley  had  gone! 

The  car  trucks  were  beating  a  steady  clack,  clack- 
clack,  as  they  pounded  the  fishplates;  from  behind 
came  the  full,  deep-chested  thunder  of  the  trailer's  ex- 


THE    MAN   WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     253 

haust;  around,  the  hundred  noises  of  the  creaking, 
groaning,  swaying  car;  without,  the  patter  of  rain, 
the  wail  of  the  wind.  But  over  it  all,  low  though  it 
was,  came  a  sound  that  sent  a  chill  to  Lee's  heart. 

It  was  like  a  breathless  moan,  do  you  understand? 
That  was  the  inhuman  part  of  it;  it  was  breathless — 
there  was  no  break — a  sort  of  sobbing  monotone.  It 
came  from  behind  him.  Lee  shivered  as  he  listened, 
and  then  his  heart  began  to  pound  as  though  it  would 
burst.  He  was  afraid — afraid.  Premonition,  perhaps ; 
I  don't  know.  He  rolled  himself  over  on  his  side,  and 
he  saw 

How  can  I  tell  it!  A  figure  was  crouched  against 
the  side  of  the  car  in  a  half-sitting  posture,  the  face 
was  red — red  with  the  blood  that  was  flowing  from  the 
forehead.  Lee  shrieked  aloud  in  terror.  "  Perley ! 
Perley !  "  Then  he  grew  sick  with  the  horror  that  was 
on  him.  Worse  than  murder  the  half-breed  had  threat- 
ened— and  he  had  kept  his  word.  Perley  had  been 
scalped ! 

Lee's  cry  must  have  reached  the  poor  wretch's  con- 
sciousness, for  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  sweeping  his 
eyes  clear  with  both  hands.  Lee,  sick  to  the  depths  of 
his  soul,  the  sweat  breaking  out  in  great,  cold  drops 
upon  his  forehead,  fought  like  a  maniac  with  his 
bonds. 

Perley  never  spoke,  never  paid  any  attention  to  Lee 
— he  was  past  all  that — but  his  brain,  at  least,  was  still 
capable  of  coherent  impression.  It  must  have  been — to 
account  for  what  he  did.  Right  in  front  of  him,  as  he 
hung  there  tottering  and  swaying,  was  a  broken  bit 


254     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

of  mirror  tacked  up  on  the  side  of  the  car.     He  was 
staring  into  it. 

His  moaning  stopped.  The  shock  of  his  own  awful 
horror  must  have  revolted,  shaken  his  very  being.  His 
hand  groped  weakly,  subconsciously  perhaps,  for  his 
pocket — his  revolver — the  end. 

Again  Lee  shrieked  as  he  struggled  to  free  himself, 
and  then,  as  Perley  fired,  he  burst  out  into  a  peal  of 
wild,  discordant  laughter.  His  mind  was  giving  way. 
He  began  to  gibber  like  a  madman — that's  the  way 
they  found  him — with  Perley's  body  pitched  full  across 
his  chest. 

Don't  ask  me.  I  told  you  Perley  was  a  little,  under- 
sized, sawed-off  man.  I  don't  know,  do  I  ?  The  half- 
breed,  physically,  could  have  handled  him  like  a  baby, 
once  he  caught  him  unawares.  That's  all  I  know. 

They  buried  Perley  down  at  Big  Cloud;  and  they 
buried  Clancy  where  the  posse  dropped  him,  drilled  full 
of  holes.  That's  the  story. 

Lee?  Charlie  Lee?  Why,  he  doesn't  count,  does 
he?  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Well,  if  you're 
interested  in  him  I'll  tell  you.  His  college  diploma 
never  did  him  any  good.  Once  he  got  ^better  and  out 
of  the  hospital,  he  took  to  drinking  periodically — hard. 
Between  times  straight  as  a  string,  you  understand,  for 
six  weeks  say,  then  off  again.  That  was  fifteen  years 
ago,  and  he's  done  it  ever  since.  The  doctors  said  that 
blow  on  the  head  unsettled  him,  skull  splinter,  or 
something  like  that ;  but  medicine's  not  an  exact  science. 
The  doctors  were  wrong.  The  trouble  was  deeper  than 
the  skull — it  was  in  his  soul.  Lee  drank  to  save  him- 


THE    MAN    WHO    DIDN'T    COUNT     255 

self  from  the  madhouse — I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that 
some  men  drink  because  they  have  to  ? 

Carleton,  the  super,  and  the  men  before  Carleton, 
understood  what  the  doctors  didn't,  so  Lee's  working 
for  the  railroad  yet.  Not  braking — he's  not  fit  for 
that,  but  he  keeps  the  job  they  gave  him — and  it's  kept 

for  him — when  he  gets  back  after  his  spells.  I 

there's  the  foreman  shouting  for  me.  Sorry,  but  I'll 
have  to  go. 

If  you're  going  out  on  Number  One  she's  just  com- 
ing down  the  gorge  now.  Good  night,  sir." 

I  lost  him  in  the  shadows  of  the  big  mogul  on  the  pit 
behind  me.  Then  I  turned  and  walked  slowly  out  of 
the  roundhouse,  over  the  turntable,  and  across  the 
tracks  to  the  station  platform.  Number  One's  mellow 
chime  floated  down  from  the  gorge,  then  the  flare  of 
the  electric  headlight,  and  the  rumble  of  the  train. 
And  in  quick,  fierce  tempo,  the  beating,  drumming 
trucks  caught  up  the  name  I  had  heard  the  foreman 
shout,  and  rang  it  over  and  over  again  in  my  ears : 

"Oh-you-Lee!  Charlie-Lee!  Lee!  Charlie-Lee- 
Lee!"  ' 


XI 

"  WHERE'S  HAGGERTY  ?  " 

THE  Hill  Division  was  proud  enough  over  it,  of 
course,  for  Carleton  was  its  old  chief;  but,  none  the 
less,  it  read  General  Order  Number  38  with  dismay 
and  misgiving. 

"  T.  J.  Hale,"  the  G.  O.  ran,  "  is  hereby  appointed 
Superintendent  of  the  Hill  Division,  with  headquar- 
ters at  Big  Cloud,  vice  H.  B.  Carleton  promoted  to 
General  Manager  of  the  System." 

"  Now  who  in  the  double-blanked,  blankety-blanked 
blazes  is  Hale  ?  "  demanded  the  roundhouse  and  the 

engine  crews. 

"  Carleton  was  all  to  the  good,  h'm  ?— what !  " 
growled  the  dispatchers. 

The  train  crews  swung  their  lanterns  with  a  defiant 
air,  and  the  passenger  conductors  juggled  their 
punches  around  their  little  fingers,  smiling  a  superior 
smile  to  themselves.  Hale  might  be  a  good  man,  per- 
haps he  was,  but  Carleton  was — "  Royal  "  Carleton. 
"  I  guess  he'll  get  along  all  right  with  us,  but  he  don't 
want  to  get  fresh,  that's  all.  Where'd  he  come  from, 
h'm?" 

That  question,  at  first,  no  one  seemed  able  to  answer. 
The  general  impression  was  that  the  Transcontinental 
had  got  him  from  some  Eastern  road.  Certainly  he 
was  a  new  man,  bran  new,  to  the  System. 

256 


"WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  257 

And  then  the  renown  of  one  Haggerty,  who  was 
braking  on  a  passenger  local,  became  great,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, the  displeasure  of  the  Division  increased. 

Said  Haggerty :  "  When  I  was  on  the  Penn  five 
years  back,  this  fellow  Hale  was  assistant  super.  I 
knew  him  well.  You  wanter  look  out  for  him,  you  can 
take  my  little  word  for  that.  He's  a  holy  terror,  an* 
that's  a  fact.  Got  any  chewin'  ?  " 

Haggerty  got  his  chewing,  being  an  egregious  liar; 
and  Hale  got  a  damaged  reputation  for  the  same  rea- 
son. 

But  Haggerty  got  more  than  his  chewing — and  he 
had  not  long  to  wait.  On  the  day  that  the  new  super 
was  expected,  Haggerty,  on  passenger  local  Number 
Seven,  got  into  Big  Cloud  about  noon,  and,  taking 
advantage  of  the  ten-minute  wait  for  refreshments, 
straddled  a  stool  at  the  lunch-counter.  Between  bites, 
he  fired  questions  at  Spence  the  dispatcher,  who  was 
bolting  his  mid-day  meal. 

"  Hale  come  yet  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Haven't  seen  him,"  replied  Spence. 

"  When  d'ye  expect  him  ?  "  persisted  Haggerty. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Spence  answered. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  blasted  close !  "  snapped  Haggerty. 
"  You  ain't  givin'  away  any  weighty  secret  if  you  let 
out  what  time  his  special'll  be  along,  I  suppose." 

"  I  haven't  heard  of  any  special,"  said  Spence. 
"  Say,  Haggerty,  they  tell  me  Hale's  an  old  friend  of 
yours,  h'm?  No  wonder  you're  anxious.  I  forgot 
about  that.  As  soon  as  I  get  word  about  him,  I'll  wire 
up  the  line  to  you  so's  you  can  jump  your  train,  come 


258     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

back  on  a  hand-car,  and  be  here  on  the  platform  to 
meet  him." 

"  You  go  to  blazes ! "  retorted  Haggerty,  and 
scowled  across  the  counter  at  an  inoffensive  looking 
little  fellow  who  had  taken  the  liberty  of  smiling  at 
the  dispatcher's  words. 

At  Haggerty's  look,  the  smile  disappeared  in  a  cup 
of  coffee  raised  hastily  to  the  lips.  "  Huh !  "  snorted 
Haggerty,  by  way  of  driving  home  to  the  other  the 
audacity  and  temerity  of  his  act,  and  likewise  the 
inadvisability  of  repeating  it.  Haggerty  was  galled. 
Once  before  that  morning  he  had  been  obliged  to  rele- 
gate this  insignificant,  squint,  eye-glassed  individual, 
who  had  persisted  in  riding  on  the  platform,  to  a 
proper  sense  of  submission.  And  the  method  employed 
had  been  no  more  delicate  a  one  than  that  of  jerking  the 
man  bodily  into  the  car  by  the  collar  of  his  coat. 
"  Huh !  "  he  repeated,  with  rising  inflexion. 

"  No,  Haggerty,"  went  on  Spence  pleasantly,  "  don't 
you  worry.  I  won't  fail  you.  When  the  super  steps 
off  the  train,  and  the  first  words  he  says  is,  '  Where's 
Haggerty?'  and  you're  not  here  to  respond  in  kind  I 
can  plainly  see  there'll  be  doings.  Oh,  no,  don't  you 
fret,  I'll  not  throw  you  down  on  anything  like  that — 
'twouldn't  be  wise  for  us,  that's  got  to  live  with  him, 
to  rile  him  up  at  the  outset !  No,  it  certainly  wouldn't, 
what?" 

"  You  go  bite  on  a  brake-shoe,  you're  too  sharp  to 
be  munchin'  doughnuts,"  snarled  Haggerty.  And, 
swinging  himself  from  his  seat,  he  went  back  to  his 
train. 


"WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  259 

An  hour  later  when  he  reached  Elk  River,  the  end 
of  his  run,  he  found  a  telegram  waiting  for  him  from 
Spence.  He  sucked  in  his  under  lip  as  he  read  it. 

"  You  sly  joker,"  wired  the  dispatcher,  "  why  didn't 
you  tell  us  that  your  friend  came  up  with  you  on  Num- 
ber Seven?" 

Haggerty  pushed  his  cap  to  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  swore  softly  under  his  breath.  He  began  to  go 
over  in  his  mind  the  passengers  that  had  been  aboard 
the  train  when  they  ran  into  Big  Cloud.  No  one 
individual  seemed  to  stand  out  carded  and  waybilled  as 
the  new  super. 

Then  an  idea  struck  Haggerty,  and  he  climbed  into 
the  rear  coach  where  Berkely,  his  conductor,  was 
making  up  his  report  sheets. 

"  Say,  Jim,"  said  Haggerty,  "  was  there  any  passes 
into  Big  Cloud  this  mornin'  ?  " 

Berkely  looked  up  suspiciously.  "  You  mind  your 
own  business,  an'  you'll  get  along  better !  "  he  snapped. 

"  Oh,  punk !  "  returned  Haggerty.  "  My  count's 
the  same  as  your'n,  ain't  it?  What's  the  matter  with 
you,  then?  Honest,  Jim,  I  wanter  know.  Was  there 
any  passes  ?  " 

"  No,  there  wasn't,"  grunted  Berkely,  cooling  down 
a  little. 

"  Well,  then,  you  might  have  said  so  at  first,  instead 
of  jumpin'  a  fellow  for  nothin',"  said  Haggerty,  and 
went  out  of  the  car  to  hang  meditatively  over  the  hand- 
rail and  spit  reflectively  at  the  ties. 

"  Now  wouldn't  that  sting  you  ?  "  he  demanded  of 
the  universe  in  general.  "  Wouldn't  that  sting  you  ? 


260      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Who  ever  heard  of  a  new  super  comin'  on  the  job 
ridin'  a  local  on  a  ticket!  An'  me  askin'  when  he  was 
goin'  to  turn  up.  Oh,  yes,  it  sure  would  sting  you! 
That  funny  boy  Spence'll  pass  this  along  an' — oh, 
punk!  I  ain't  sure  it  wouldn't  have  been  better  if  I'd 
kept  my  mouth  shut  about  knowin'  Hale,  but  who'd 
ever  thought  he'd  come  up  on  my  train!  How  was  I 
to  know,  h'm?  "  And  during  all  that  afternoon's  lay- 
up  at  Elk  River,  Haggerty  pondered  the  matter.  He 
continued  to  ponder  it  as  they  pulled  out  for  the  return 
trip  in  the  evening,  and  he  was  still  pondering  it  when 
they  whistled  for  Big  Cloud. 

There  was  no  moon  up  that  night,  and  it  was  pretty 
dark  as  they  ran  in.  Haggerty,  with  his  lantern,  was 
standing  on  the  rear  end.  As  the  train  slowed  itself 
to  a  halt,  a  man  came  tearing  down  the  station  plat- 
form at  a  run. 

"Where's  Haggerty?"  he  called  breathlessly. 
"  Where's " 

"  Here,"  said  Haggerty  promptly,  leaning  out  over 
the  steps  and  showing  his  light.  "  What  d'ye  want?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  the  man.  "  I'll  be  back—" 
and  he  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  station. 

"  He  acts  like  he  was  nutty,"  muttered  Haggerty, 
and  swung  himself  off  the  steps. 

But,  though  Haggerty  waited,  the  man  did  not  come 
back,  and  he  had  not  come  back  when  the  train  began 
to  roll  out  of  the  station,  and  Haggerty  was  again  on 
the  rear  platform  of  the  car.  Then,  just  as  his  hand 
reached  out  to  open  the  door,  he  stopped  and  started 
suddenly  as  though  he  had  been  stung. 


st  WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  261 

A  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness  from  the  other 
side  of  the  track  over  by  the  roundhouse.  "  Where's 
Haggerty?  "  it  demanded  anxiously. 

Then  Haggerty  tumbled,  and  his  face  went  red  with 
rage.  He  leaned  far  out  over  the  rail,  and,  forgetful 
that  the  pantomime  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  shook  his 
clinched  fist  in  the  direction  from  whence  the  voice 
had  come. 

"  You  go  to  he-ee-11-111 !  "  he  bawled,  the  exclama- 
tion shaken  into  syllables  by  reason  of  the  car  wheels 
jolting  over  the  siding  switches  at  that  precise  moment. 
And  then,  his  senses  being  very  acute,  from  where  the 
light  shone  in  the  dispatcher's  window  he  thought  he 
heard,  above  the  momentarily  increasing  rattle  of  the 
train,  a  laugh — a  laugh  that  produced  anything  but  a 
quieting  effect  on  his  already  outraged  sensibilities. 

Now  Haggerty  was  not  the  nature  of  those  who  can 
pass  lightly  over  a  joke  at  their  own  expense,  especially 
if  that  joke  be  too  prolonged  and  carries  with  it  a  hint 
of  underlying  venom.  Therefore,  as  the  "  one  on 
Haggerty  "  spread  over  the  division,  and  scarcely  an 
hour  of  the  day  passed  that  the  cry  "  Where's  Hag- 
gerty ?  "  did  not  reach  his  ears,  he  began  to  sulk  and 
treasure  up  his  injury.  The  division  was  rubbing  it  in 
pretty  hard.  But  the  curious  part  of  it  all  was  that  his 
bitterness  was  not  directed  against  himself  who  was 
the  direct  cause  of  his  discomfiture,  nor  against  Spence 
who  was  the  indirect  cause,  but  against  Hale,  who  was 
no  cause  at  all. 

Just  once  had  Haggerty  seen  the  superintendent. 
Hale  was  pointed  out  to  him  on  the  platform  at  Big 


262      ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Cloud,  and  Haggerty  had  ducked  hastily  back  inside 
his  train.  Hale  was  the  inoffensive  little  fellow  he  had 
treated  with  such  scant  courtesy  at  the  lunch-counter, 
the  insignificant,  squint-eye-glassed  individual  he  had 
hauled  from  the  car  platform  by  the  coat  collar! 
When  Haggerty's  mingled  feelings  of  perturbation 
and  amazement  permitted  him  any  speech  at  all,  it  was 
rather  incoherent. 

<e  That — the  runt !  "  he  gasped,  and  subsided  into  an 
empty  seat. 

And  in  this  inelegant,  but  pithy,  summing  up  of  the 
capacity  and  dimensions  of  the  new  official  the  division 
was  with  him  to  the  last  section  hand.  Him — a  rail- 
road man !  The  Hill  Division  remembered  "  Royal  " 
Carleton  and  was  ashamed,  and  it  rankled  for  the 
shame  that  it  considered  had  been  put  upon  it.  Out  of 
it  all,  Haggerty  was  the  only  thing  of  saving  grace! 
So  upon  Haggerty  they  loosened,  behind  the  humor, 
some  of  their  bitterness.  Haggerty  became  the  safety 
valve  of  the  division. 

A  month  had  gone  by  and  Hale  had  lived  well  up 
to  what  his  appearance  had  led  them  to  expect.  He 
might  have  been  an  automaton  for  all  the  signs  of 
life  that  emanated  from  his  office.  Just  routine,  the 
routine  business,  routine,  that  was  all.  The  disquiet 
and  unrest  that  brooded  over  the  division  became  con- 
tempt— the  kind  of  contempt  that  made  the  car-tinks 
put  on  airs,  and  in  their  heart  of  hearts  figure  them- 
selves better  railroad  men  than  he  who  sat  over  them 
in  supreme  authority. 

Even  Haggerty  no  longer  ducked  out  of  sight  when 


"WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  263 

circumstances  required  that  he  should  breathe  the  same 
air  as  his  superior.  Haggerty  had  acquired  a  swagger ; 
also,  he  now  voiced  his  opinion,  his  cordially  poor 
opinion,  of  Mr.  Hale  without  restraint  and  with  no 
check  upon  his  tongue. 

And  then  Haggerty  got  a  shock.  It  was  imparted  by 
Spence. 

"  Got  it  from  Hale's  clerk  last  night,"  said  the  dis- 
patcher. "  He's  going  to  run  an  inspection  special 
over  the  division,  and  he's  picked  out  the  fag  end  of  all 
things  for  the  crew.  He  picked  you  first,  Haggerty." 

"  Aw,  forget  it !  "  growled  Haggerty,  with  a  scowl. 

"  I  think  there's  something  behind  it,  though," 
Spence  went  on,  his  voice  modulated  confidentially. 
"  Between  you  and  me,  Haggerty,  the  inspection  trip 
is  a  bluff." 

Haggerty  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  How's  that?  "  he 
demanded. 

"  Well,"  said  Spence  serenely,  backing  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance, "  I  think  he's  hurt  at  the  way  you've  cut  him 
since  he's  been  here.  He's  pining  for  your  company, 
and " 

Haggerty  sprang  to  his  feet  from  the  baggage  truck 
on  which  he  had  been  seated,  and  shook  his  fist  franti- 
cally at  the  fast  retreating  figure.  He  was  still  gestic- 
ulating fiercely  and  muttering  savagely  to  himself 
when  the  window  in  the  dispatcher's  room  overhead 
opened  softly,  and  Spence  stuck  out  his  head. 

"  Hey,  there,  Haggerty,"  he  called,  "  quit  practising 
that  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet.  You  haven't  got  any 
time  to  waste.  You  want  to  run  along  and  get  the 


264      ON   THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

missus  to  press  out  a  pair  of  panties,  and  iron  a  boiled 
shirt  for  you.  You'll  get  your  orders  in  the  morning." 

"  Come  down  for  one  minute,"  choked  Haggerty, 
his  rage  fanned  to  a  white  heat  by  the  knowledge  of  his 
own  impotence,  for  Spence,  as  he  well  knew,  was 
safely  entrenched  behind  locked  doors.  "  Just  one 
minute,  an'  I'll  make  your  face  look  like  it  had  never 
been  born.  I  will  that !  " 

"  Haggerty,"  said  Spence  in  an  injured  tone,  as  the 
window  closed,  "  you  are  disgruntled." 

But  Haggerty  was  to  be  still  more  disgruntled,  for 
the  next  morning,  true  to  Spence's  words,  he  found 
himself  assigned  to  Inspection  Special  Number  Eighty- 
nine.  Haggerty  was  not  happy;  but  he  boarded  the 
forward  car,  as  they  pulled  out  for  the  mountains  with 
the  mental  resolution  that  he  would  keep  out  of  the 
super's  way. 

Resolutions,  however,  like  many  other  things,  are 
sometimes  rudely  upset  in  the  face  of  conditions  that 
are  not  taken  into  account  in  the  reckoning.  They  had 
been  running  at  a  forty-mile  clip,  and  were  about  into 
the  yard  at  Coyote  Bend,  when  Haggerty  nearly  went 
to  the  floor  as  the  "  air  "  came  on  with  a  sudden  rush, 
and  the  train  came  jerking  to  a  halt  like  a  bucking 
bronco.  The  whistle  was  going  like  mad  for  the  block 
ahead.  Haggerty  grabbed  his  red  flag,  dropped  to  the 
ground,  and  ran  back  past  the  super's  car  to  take  his 
distance. 

Up  ahead,  he  could  see  the  tail  end  of  a  freight  dis- 
appearing around  the  bend,  crawling  into  safety  on  the 
siding.  Nothing  very  interesting  about  that,  some- 


"WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  265 

body  would  get  Tokio  for  laying  out  the  Special,  he 
supposed.  Maybe  the  freight  had  had  a  breakdown, 
and  was  off  schedule  making  the  Bend.  Personally, 
Haggerty  did  not  care.  It  made  very  little  difference 
to  him.  He  picked  up  a  handful  of  stones,  and  began 
to  plug  them  at  the  nearest  telegraph  pole.  Suddenly 
he  changed  the  direction  of  his  shots,  and  let  fly  with 
all  his  might  at  a  gopher  he  had  spotted  squatting  in 
front  of  his  hole. 

"  Holy  Mac !  "  he  ejaculated  in  unbounded  astonish- 
ment. "  I  believe  I  hit  the  cuss !  " — and  he  went  back 
to  see. 

Just  as  he  got  down  the  embankment,  the  Special 
began  to  whistle  for  her  flag,  one — two — three — four, 
and  Haggerty,  scrambling  to  the  track  again,  began  to 
run.  But  fast  as  he  ran,  he  had  only  covered  about 
half  the  distance  when  the  train  began  to  move.  It 
was,  therefore,  a  very  breathless  and  panting  Haggerty 
who  just  managed  to  grab  the  rail  of  the  rear  car — the 
super's  car! 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  pass  through  and 
Haggerty,  with  his  acquired  swagger,  started.  The 
super  was  alone  in  the  rear  compartment,  seated  at  a 
table,  a  mass  of  papers  before  him.  Haggerty  was  in- 
dustriously rolling  up  his  flag  as  he  passed  along. 

"Haggerty!" 

Haggerty  stopped  and  swung  around  at  the  sound 
of  his  name. 

Hale  reached  his  hand  into  a  box  of  cigars  that  lay 
open  on  the  table,  selected  one  carefully,  lighted  it, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  I  would  like  to  offer 


266      ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

you  one,  Haggerty,"  he  said  quietly,  "  but  I  am  afraid 
you  would  misunderstand." 

Haggerty  shifted  a  little  before  the  super's  look. 
Somehow,  there  wasn't  any  squint  at  all;  instead,  be- 
hind the  glasses,  the  gray  eyes  were  remarkably  bright 
and  clear,  and  their  steadiness  was  discomposing — to 
Haggerty. 

"  It  seems,"  said  Hale,  a  little  smile  playing  around 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  "  that  they  don't  measure 
men  by  the  same  standard  out  West  here  that  they  did 
when  we  were  back  on  the  Penn  together,  eh  ?  " 

Haggerty  reddened.  His  only  belief  would  have 
been  in  bluster;  but,  curiously  enough,  there  was 
something  about  this  little  man,  he  couldn't  tell  just 
what,  that  made  bluster  impossible.  Therefore,  Hag- 
gerty held  his  peace,  and  his  fingers  played  nervously 
with  the  flag,  twirling  it  around  and  around  awk- 
wardly. 

"Don't  make  any  mistake,  Haggerty,"  the  super 
continued  pleasantly.  "  I'm  not  trying  to  rub  it  in. 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I've  heard  the  story.  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  didn't  nose  it  out.  I  heard  it  at  the 
lunch-counter  that  day  after  you  went  out,  and  before 
the  men  there  knew  who  I  was.  I  want  to  start 
straight  with  you,  Haggerty." 

Haggerty  was  puzzled  and  flustered  at  this  opening. 
"  Well,  sir,"  he  blurted  out,  "  of  course  you  know  it 
was  all  a  lie.  I  only  did  it  for  a  josh." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  Hale  answered.  "  In  itself  it 
didn't  amount  to  anything,  but  the  consequences  are  a 
little  more  than  you  reckoned  on,  aren't  they?  It's 


((  WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  267 

acted  like  a  boomerang,  and  you're  pretty  sore,  Hag- 
gerty,  aren't  you  ?  " 

The  openness  and  friendly  tones  of  the  super  took 
hold  of  Haggerty,  and  he  warmed  toward  the  other. 

"  Well,  yes,  sir,  I  suppose  I  am,"  he  admitted. 

Hale  nodded.  "  Now,  I  want  you  to  see  the  other 
side  of  it,  Haggerty — my  side.  No  division  of  any 
railroad,  or  anything  else  for  that  matter,  can  do  itself 
justice  unless  everyone  connected  with  it  is  pulling  to- 
gether for  it.  I  want  every  man  out  here  with  me, 
and  first  of  all  I  want  you.  There  is  nothing  destroys 
respect  so  much  as  ridicule.  The  division,  much  after 
the  fashion  that  an  epidemic  of  measles  springs  up 
amongst  children,  took  it  into  their  heads  to  dislike 
the  successor  of  Mr.  Carleton,  no  matter  who  he  might 
be.  Now,  unfortunately,  instead  of  having  checked 
the  spread,  the  germs  are  being  fostered  because,  back 
of  their  fun  with  you,  a  description  of  contempt  for  me 
is  constantly  kept  alive.  So  I  want  you  to 
cooperate  with  me,  Haggerty,  and  show  them  that, 
after  all,  whether  I'm  a  holy  terror  or  not,  whether  I'm 
a  runt  of  a  giant,  no  matter  what,  I'm  entitled  to  a 
fair  deal  out  here  in  the  West.  There,  Haggerty, 
that's  a  pretty  long  sermon  for  me.  I'm  not  much  at 
preaching.  Just  turn  what  I've  said  over  in  your  mind, 
that's  all.  I  think  I  can  safely  offer  you  a  cigar  now. 
Will  you  have  one  ?  " 

Haggerty  accepted  the  cigar  with  a  flustered  mumble 
of  thanks,  and  as  he  went  forward  to  the  other  coach 
he  chewed  the  end  pensively. 

"Well,   how's   the   little   fellow?     Hope   the   ride 


268      ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

ain't  makin'  him  car-sick,"  sneered  Slakely,  the  con- 
ductor. 

Haggerty  strode  up  to  the  other,  and  shoved  his 
fist  savagely  within  an  inch  of  Slakely's  nose. 

"  I'll  have  you  know,  the  super's  all  right,  you  wall- 
eyed coyote,  you !  I'm  tellin'  you  he's  a  man.  Do  I 
hear  any  r^-marks  to  the  contrary  ?  " 

"  Say,"  gasped  Slakely  blankly,  retreating  down  the 
aisle,  "  what's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ?  " 

'''  That's  what's  the  matter !  " — Haggerty's  explana- 
tion was  more  forcible  than  explicit,  though  the  mean- 
ing of  his  clenched  fist  which  he  shook  at  the  other  was 
pointed  enough  in  its  inference.  "  That's  what's  the 
matter,  my  bucko,"  he  repeated  fiercely,  "  an'  don't 
you  forget  it!  I'm  givin'  it  to  you  straight,  an'  I'll 
take  none  of  your  lip  about  it  neither !  See  ?  " 

Haggerty  had  raised  the  standard.  Not,  perhaps, 
as  the  super  had  expected;  but  according  to  his  own 
ideas,  or  rather  to  his  fiery  temper  which  led  him  to  act 
blindly  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  as  his  impulse 
directed. 

But  it  was  not  this  method  of  Haggerty's,  if  such  a 
term  could  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  be  applied 
to  Haggerty,  that  was  to  bring  about  the  desired  result, 
and  at  the  same  time  rid  him  of  his  tormentors — tor- 
mentors who  continued  to  sound  the  cry,  "  Where's 
Haggerty  ?  "  with  undiminished  frequency — tormen- 
tors who  were  much  too  wary  to  allow  themselves  to 
be  caught  anywhere  within  striking  distance,  for  Hag- 
gerty's forearm  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at.  Instead, 
the  end  came  from  another  source  as  totally  different 


"  WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  269 

as  it  was  unexpected.  It  came  on  the  third  day  of  the 
inspection  trip,  up  in  the  Rockies  at  the  new  bridge 
across  the  Stony  River — and  it  was  the  new  bridge 
that  did  it. 

They  were  to  lay  out  there  for  the  morning,  and 
Haggerty  started  in  to  employ  the  two  or  three  hours 
of  leisure  this  gave  him  by  looking  over  the  work.  It 
wasn't  much  of  a  bridge  as  bridges  go,  for  the  Stony 
wasn't  much  of  a  river;  but  the  approaches  were 
enough  to  pull  the  heart  out  of  the  stoutest  bridge  crew 
that  ever  toiled  and  sweated  and  slaved.  Just  rock, 
solid,  gray,  massive;  and  so  it  was  blast,  blast,  blast, 
hour  after  hour  all  through  the  day,  day  after  day. 
One  span,  resting  on  the  shore  abutments,  was  to 
bridge  the  canon  that  yawned  six  hundred  feet  below, 
where  the  Stony  swirled  and  eddied,  a  foaming,  angry, 
chattering,  little  stream. 

On  the  eastern  side,  where  Haggerty  stood,  the  an- 
chorage was  pretty  well  under  way,  but  over  across 
on  the  western  shore  they  were  still  pitting  their  blast- 
ing powder  against  the  stubborn  rock  of  the  mountain- 
side. Haggerty  crossed  over  on  the  old  bridge  to  take 
a  look  at  this.  Just  as  he  reached  the  other  side  a 
stationary  engine  blew  shrilly  for  a  blast,  and  the 
men  began  to  run  for  cover.  Haggerty  pulled  his 
watch  and  marked  the  time — one  minute  and  fifteen 
seconds.  Then  the  blast  thundered,  echoed,  reechoed, 
and  died  away  through  the  mountains.  He  joined  the 
men  as  they  went  back  to  their  work. 

"  Holy  Mac ! "  he  exclaimed  to  the  foreman,  as  "he 
peered  over  the  edge  of  the  excavation  and  looked 


270      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

down  some  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  to  the  ledge  where 
the  men  were  already  busy  again.  "  Holy  Mac ! 
You've  got  to  look  sharp,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,"  replied  the  foreman.  "  We  give 
'em  plenty  of  time.  When  the  whistle  blows  the  men 
hump  it.  We  don't  touch  the  button  till  the  last  one  is 
crawlin'  over  the  top  of  the  bank.  Then,  with  the 
time  fuse,  there's  a  minute,  lots  of  time." 

Haggerty  looked  on  for  awhile,  then  he  turned 
away,  sat  down  by  one  of  the  shanties,  and  loaded  his 
pipe.  The  pipe  once  alight,  he  settled  himself  in  a 
more  comfortable  position  by  sprawling  on  his  back, 
his  hands  under  his  head.  From  where  he  lay,  he  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  other  side  of  the  river  as  well  as 
the  work  before  him.  He  could  see  Hale  across  there 
talking  to  one  of  the  bridge  engineers.  He  watched 
the  two  men  lazily,  in  drowsy  contentment,  until  he 
lost  sight  of  them  as  they  started  to  come  over  to  his 
side,  then  his  attention  became  riveted  again  on  his 
immediate  surroundings. 

They  were  getting  ready  for  another  blast.  Hag- 
gerty sat  up.  It  was  rather  exciting  to  see  the  men 
come  scrambling  out  of  the  hole.  The  whistle  had  just 
gone  three  toots.  They  were  coming  now,  one  head 
after  another  popping  up  over  the  edge,  then  the  shoul- 
ders, and  finally  the  men  on  their  feet  running  like 
deers  for  shelter — not  far,  only  a  few  yards,  for  the  ex- 
cavation itself  afforded  protection,  once  clear  of  it. 
Haggerty  himself  was  not  fifteen  yards  away. 

He  counted  the  men  as  they  came  out.  It  was  the 
eighteenth  who,  just  as  his  head  and  shoulders  ap- 


"WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  271 

peared,  waved  an  arm  and  shouted :  "  All  out.  Let 
'er  go !  "  He  saw  the  foreman  bend  over  the  battery 
and  make  the  connection  that  would  spark  the  time- 
fuse at  the  other  end,  and  then  a  groan  of  horror  went 
up  around  him.  Number  Eighteen,  with  a  cry  and  a 
desperate  effort  to  pull  himself  over  the  top,  had  slipped 
back  and  disappeared  from  sight ! 

Haggerty's  pipe  dropped  to  the  ground  from  be- 
tween his  teeth,  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  its  beats,  a 
cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  face.  He  was  on  his 
feet  now,  and  the  foreman's  words  were  ringing  in  his 
ears :  "  Then  there's  a  minute,  lots  of  time !  Then 
there's  a  minute,  lots  of  time!" 

He  began  to  run,  and  the  seconds,  as  he  ran,  length- 
ened into  years  and  cycles.  "  My  God !  "  he  muttered 
in  a  catchy  way. 

But  fast  as  he  ran,  someone  was  faster  than  he. 
Five  yards  from  the  edge  of  the  excavation,  a  figure, 
small,  short,  speeding  like  the  wind,  passed  him.  It 
was  Hale — the  super ! 

Behind,  the  foreman's  voice  bellowed  hoarsely: 
"  Come  back !  Come  back !  Ye  can't  get  to  the  fuse ! 
D'ye  hear!" 

"  Mabbe,"  mumbled  Haggerty  between  his  teeth, 
"  mabbe  we  can  get  the  man.  Mary,  Mother,  help 
us!" 

Hale,  flat  on  the  ground,  was  making  to  swing  him- 
self over  as  Haggerty,  for  the  second  time,  caught  him 
by  the  collar  of  his  coat.  "  You  ain't  strong  enough," 
he  grunted,  yanking  the  super  back.  "  You  help  me 
from  the  top  " — and  over  the  edge  he  went  himself. 


272      ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  Then  there's  a  minute,  lots  of  time !  " — the  words 
came  again  unbidden.  How  much,  in  God's  name  how 
much,  of  that  minute  had  gone,  how  much  was  left? 
His  teeth  were  set,  his  heart  pounds  so  fierce  and  rapid 
that  his  breath  came  hard  and  choked,  as  he  lowered 
himself  to  a  little  ledge,  projecting-  out  some  seven 
or  eight  feet  below  the  surface  that  had  caught  and 
held  the  body  of  Number  Eighteen.  The  man  lay  there 
groaning.  It  was  easy  to  see  what  had  happened.  A 
misplaced  step  in  the  climb,  then  a  loosened  rock,  his 
balance  gone,  and  the  stone  had  crashed  down  upon  his 
legs  and  ankles. 

There  was  a  look  of  helpless  terror  in  the  eyes  of 
the  wounded  man  as  Haggerty  reached  and  bent  over 
him.  "  Get  out,"  the  white  lips  quivered.  "  You  ain't 
got  time.  I  give  the  signal.  The  blast'll  be  goin'  now." 

"  There's  a  minute,  lots  of  time,"  said  Haggerty  in  a 
sing-song,  crazy  way.  He  was  trying  to  fit  the  words 
to  an  air  he  had  heard  somewhere.  Queer  he  couldn't 
remember  it,  the  words  were  straight  enough!  Then 
he  laughed — foolishly — as  he  worked  like  a  madman ! 

He  had  raised  the  man  in  his  arms  and  now,  heaving 
with  all  his  strength,  was  gradually  pushing  him  up, 
up.  The  strain  became  terrific.  Haggerty's  muscles 
cracked.  One  of  his  arms  was  almost  useless  to  him 
owing  to  the  narrowness  of  the  ledge  that,  to  maintain 
even  a  precarious  footing  as,  little  by  little,  he  rose  to 
an  upright  position,  forced  him  tight  against  the  wall 
of  rock  and  earth.  Haggerty  panted  with  cruel,  gasp- 
ing sobs.  "  Then  there's  a  minute,  lots  of  time !  " 
The  repetition  of  the  words  came  surging  upon  him 


"  WHERE'S    HAGGERTY?"  273 

with  a  shock  of  horror,  lending  him  a  frenzied 
strength.  A  desperate  twist,  and  he  had  made  the  half- 
turn  that  brought  his  back  to  the  cutting.  His  other 
arm  was  free  now.  A  heave,  and  he  had  swung  Num- 
ber Eighteen  above  his  shoulders  within  reach  of  the 
super's  outstretched  hands.  A  second  more,  and,  with 
Hale  pulling  above  and  Haggerty  lifting  below,  the 
man,  with  a  cry  of  agony  as  his  wounded  leg  banged 
limply  against  the  ground,  was  forced  up  over  the 
bank. 

"  Quick,  Haggerty !  For  God's  sake,  be  quick 
yourself,"  cried  Hale.  "Hurry,  man,  hurry!" 

"  There's  a  minute  " — Haggerty  sprang  for  the 
top  of  the  bank,  clutched  it— "  lots  of—"  The  last 
word  was  blotted  out  as  he  dragged  himself  over  the 
edge,  and  heard  Hale's  sharp  command :  "  Lie  flat !  " 
From  behind  and  below  him  came  the  roar  of  the  de- 
tonation, he  felt  the  ground  shake  and  quiver  beneath 
him,  the  echoes  were  rolling  and  reverberating  like  a 
park  of  artillery — then  Hale's  low,  fervent:  "Thank 
God!" 

It  was  Hale  who  got  it  first  as  the  mob  of  men 
rushed  forward,  cheering,  laughing,  gabbling  hysteric- 
ally. And  it  was  at  Hale's  uplifted  hand  that  the 
clamor  died  suddenly  away,  and  in  its  stead  came  the 
super's  voice  in  quiet  tones:  "Where's  Haggerty?" 

"  Aw,  gwan !  "  sputtered  Haggerty  sheepishly,  try- 
ing to  fight  his  way  out  of  the  crowd  that  pressed  upon 
him  to  haul  and  maul  him,  to  thump  his  back,  to  shake 
his  hand.  "  Aw,  gwan !  I  wanter  get  me  pipe  that 
I  left  over  by  the  shanty." 


XII 
McQUEEN'S  HOBBY 

THERE  isn't  much  use  in  talking  about  the  logical 
or  the  illogical  when  you  come  to  couple  up  with  a 
man's  hobby,  because  a  hobby  is  a  hobby  and  that's  all 
there  is  to  it — with  nothing  left  to  be  said  on  the  sub- 
ject. Most  men  have  a  hobby.  McQueen's  was  coal 
— just  coal. 

McQueen  talked  coal  with  a  persistence  that  was 
amazing.  On  all  occasions  and  under  any  pretext  it 
was  coal.  Was  he  off  schedule  with  a  regularity  that 
entailed  his  presence  on  the  carpet  before  the  division 
superintendent,  it  was  coal.  Did  he  break  down  be- 
tween meeting-points  with  the  attendant  result  that 
the  dispatchers  fretted  and  fumed  and  swore  as  they 
readjusted  their  schedules  and  rearranged  their  train 
sheets,  it  was  coal.  Everlastingly  and  eternally 
coal. 

"What's  coal?"  McQueen  would  demand  orac- 
ularly. "  It's  carbon  and  oxygen  and  hydrogen  with  a 
dash  of  nitrogen,  ain't  it?  Well,  then,  what  are  you 
talking  about?  Coal  ain't  just  coal,  some  of  it's 
mostly  slate.  Two  hundred  and  ten  pounds  all  the 
way,  all  the  time,  with  the  grate  bars  cluttered  with 
that,  huh!  What?" 

No  purchasing  agent  that  had  ever  hit  the  division 

274 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  275 

had  been  quite  able  to  satisfy  McQueen  with  the  brand 
of  the  commodity  that  was  supplied  in  accordance 
with  the  requisition  orders  that  he  drew.  And  so, 
day  in  and  day  out,  big  802  puffed  her  way  through 
the  mountains,  and  McQueen,  in  the  cab,  absorbed 
coal  statistics,  coal  data,  coal  everything,  with  an 
avidity,  a  thoroughness,  and  a  masterliness  of 
detail,  that  would  have  put  some  noted  geologists  to 
shame  and  given  the  rest  a  run  to  hold  their  rights 
on  the  marked-up  schedule. 

Up  at  headquarters — when  things  were  running 
smoothly  and  McQueen  was  behaving  himself  with 
no  scores  chalked  up  against  him  on  the  time-card — 
they  treated  his  hobby  as  a  joke.  So  that  when  his 
whistle  boomed  out  of  the  gorge  to  the  westward,  or 
shrilled  across  the  cut  to  the  eastward,  followed  a 
moment  afterward  by  the  sight  of  the  big,  flying 
mogul  with  her  string  of  slewing  dark-green  coaches, 
the  staff  on  duty  at  Big  Cloud  would  lean  from  the 
upper  windows  and  watch  the  Limited  as  she  shat- 
tered the  yard  switches  with  a  roar — watch  as,  with  a 
hiss  of  the  air  and  the  grinding  of  the  brake  shoes  as 
they  sparked  the  tires,  she  would  draw  up,  panting,  at 
the  platform,  and  the  big  engineer  would  swing  him- 
self from  the  cab  for  an  oil  around.  Then  the  badi- 
nage flew  thick  and  fast  while  McQueen  swabbed  his 
hands  on  a  hunk  of  waste  and  punctuated  the  remarks 
with  squirts  from  his  long-spouted  can  as  he  filled  the 
thirsty  oil  cups. 

So  the  big  fellows  laughed  and  joked,  and  the 
Brotherhood  chaffed  him  unmercifully. 


276     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD] 

If  anyone  had  asked  McQueen  what  had  started, 
let  alone  caused  him  to  exhaust  the  subject  of  coal 
with  such  painstaking  and  conscientious  insistence, 
he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  have  answered.  It  had 
started — just  started,  that's  all — and,  fascinating  him, 
had  pursued  its  insidious  advance  unchecked  and  un- 
questioned— that  is,  unquestioned  until  one  morning 
when  Clarihue,  the  turner  at  the  Big  Cloud  round- 
house, kind  of  jerked  him  up  a  little  on  the  proposi- 
tion. 

"  You're  against  the  red,  you  and  your  coal, 
Mac,  all  right,  all  right,"  Clarihue  chuckled,  as 
the  engineer  came  in  to  sign  on  for  the  day's 
run. 

McQueen  was  patting  8o2's  slide  bars  affection- 
ately. "  How's  that?  "  he  asked. 

"Oil!" 

"  Oil  ?  "  repeated  McQueen,  puzzled. 

"  Sure  thing !  No  more  coal — no  more  slate — no 
more  cinders — you  touch  her  off,  and  there  you  are! 
You'll  have  to  cut  out  the  coal  and  plug  up  on  oil, 
Mac." 

"Oh!"  said  McQueen,  enlightened.  "Oil-burn- 
ers, eh  ?  I  saw  one  of  'em  down  East.  They're  evil- 
smelling,  inhuman,  stinking  brutes,  that's  what  they 
are!  Don't  you  let  'em  side  track  you  like  that,  son. 
They  may  do  down  there,  but  not  in  the  hills.  Not 
while  you  and  me  are  pulling  throttles,  and  don't  you 
think  so." 

Clarihue  grinned. 

"  Well,  mabbe,"  said  he.     "  But  say,  honest,  Mac, 


McQUEEN'S   HOBBY  277 

what's  the  sense  of  gassing  about  coal  the  way  you 
do?  What's  to  come  out  of  it?  What's  the  good  of 
it?  You  just  get  the  laugh  from  the  boys, 
what?" 

McQueen's  answer  was  to  scratch  his  head.  To 
put  the  matter  into  the  concrete  class  of  practica- 
bility was  a  phase  of  the  subject  that  he  had  not  con- 
sidered. He  scratched  his  head  when  the  turner  had 
gone ;  and,  also,  he  scratched  his  head  for  several  days 
thereafter.  Then  he  caught  at  a  happy  inspiration 
whereby  to  solve  the  riddle,  and  therein  he  fell — but 
of  that  in  a  moment. 

Things  were  booming  on  the  Hill  Division. 
Traffic  was  doubled,  trebled.  Everything  on  the  train 
sheets  was  in  sections.  Promotions  flew  thick  and 
fast.  Wipers  were  set  to  firing,  and  the  firemen 
moved  over  to  the  right-hand  side  of  the  cabs.  Every 
wheel  the  division  could  beg,  borrow  or  steal  was 
doing  fancy  time  stunts  smashing  records.  Everyone 
from  car-tink  to  superintendent,  was  on  the  jump. 
Even  the  directors,  not  to  be  outdone  in  the  general 
order  of  things,  worked  overtime  rubbing  fat  hands 
in  gleeful  anticipation  of  juicy,  luscious  dividends  to 
be ;  only  they  neglected  to  figure  in  Noonan  as  an  item 
on  the  balance  sheets. 

Noonan?  Where  is  the  Brotherhood  that  does  not 
number  among  its  members  men  with  grievances, 
fancied  or  real?  Noonan  had  a  grievance, — no  par- 
ticular grievance,  just  a  grievance — and  Noonan  was 
a  power  in  that  branch  of  the  Brotherhood  that  held 
sway  over  the  Hill  Division.  Noonan  always  had  a 


278     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

grievance;  due,  primarily,  to  the  fact  that  he  had  a 
deep  and  long-seated  grudge  against  himself.  It 
dated  way  back — he'd  been  born  that  way. 

"  Grievances!  "  he  spluttered  to  a  group  of  his  ad- 
mirers. "  Grievances  ?  Why,  we're  against  the  worst 
of  it  all  the  time.  We're  not  track-walkers,  are  we? 
Well  then,  who  runs  the  road?  It's  us  on  the 
throttles,  what?  Who's  to  blame  for  our  measly 
schedule  of  hours  and  pay?  We  are,  'cause  we 
haven't  the  sand  to  stand  up  for  our  rights.  That's 
what,  and  don't  you  forget  it !  " 

There  was  a  chorus  of  assent.  "  Noonan's  right," 
said  one  Devins,  "  only  it  don't  look  to  me  like  now 
was  what  you  might  rightly  call  the  time  to  growl. 
Times  are  good,  everything's  double-headed,  and  the 
paycar's  running  carload  lots." 

Noonan  glared.  f  You've  got  the  brains  of  a  piston 
head,  that's  what  you  have,"  he  exploded.  "  It's 
times  like  these  we'd  win  hands  down.  Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  wait  till  there's  nothing  doing,  and  they're 
laying  the  boys  off  and  everybody,  mostly,  is  running 
spare!  What  chance  d'ye  think  any  demands  would 
stand  then?" 

Of  a  truth  it  was  the  accepted  time  and  a  most 
glorious  opportunity.  In  that,  Noonan  was  right. 
Only  one  obstacle  lay  between  him  and  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  cherished  ambition  to  make  some^ 
thing  of  his  trouble-hunting  proclivities  and  become 
a  leader  of  men — in  a  strike.  That  obstacle  was 
McQueen. 

McQueen  was  a  company  man.     Out  and  out  a 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  279 

company  man;  though  nothing  would  have  surprised 
McQueen  more  than  to  learn  that  he  was  looked  up 
to  as  a  leader  by  the  conservative  element  of  the 
Brotherhood.  True,  he  and  his  coal  was  the  joke  of 
the  division;  but  that  was  only  a  joke,  and  in  no  wise 
to  be  held  up  against  him.  His  influence,  of  whose 
existence  he  was  oblivious,  was  based  on  things  apart 
from  that.  Big,  kindly,  honest,  incapable  of  deceit, 
simple,  straight-forward,  staunch  in  his  friendships, 
somewhat  inclined  to  stubborness  in  his  beliefs  per- 
haps, easily  ruffled  but  as  easily  pacified,  such  was 
McQueen.  Such  was  the  McQueen  the  officials 
honored,  and  such  was  the  McQueen  with  whom  the 
boys  would  gladly  and  loyally  have  shared  their  pay 
checks  to  the  last  cent. 

All  this  Noonan  knew.  Knew,  too,  that  to  gain  his 
end  he  must  first  win  over  McQueen.  And  to  that 
object  he  began  to  devote  himself.  He  and  McQueen 
shared  the  honors  of  the  fast  mail,  and  under  or- 
dinary conditions  communication  between  the  two 
men  was  limited  to  a  flirt  of  the  hand  from  the  cab  as 
one  or  other  of  them  tore  by  the  siding  designated 
as  their  meeting-point  by  the  lords  of  the  road,  the 
dispatchers.  But  now  things  were  a  bit  different, 
everything  was  more  or  less  off  schedule.  And  while 
the  Limited,  East  and  West,  was  nursed  along  as 
near  her  running  time  as  possible,  and  generally  got 
the  best  of  it  over  everything  else,  there  were,  never- 
theless, occasions  when  both  men  were  stalled  together 
on  time  orders  at  the  same  point. 

Noonan  tackled  McQueen  at  the  first  opportunity. 


280     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

He  picked  his  way  cautiously  as  though  not  quite 
sure  of  his  rights  and  ready  for  a  quick  reverse. 

"  Say,  Mac,"  he  began,  "  what  do  you  think  of  all 
this  talk  that's  going  'round  ?  " 

"  Talk  ?  "  said  McQueen.    "  What  talk  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  gasped  Noonan,  in  well- 
simulated  surprise,  "  that  you  haven't  heard  it  ?  And 
the  boys  are  slinging  it  pretty  hot,  at  that !  " 

"  I  haven't  heard  anything,"  McQueen  answered, 
slightly  suspicious  that  Noonan  was  about  to  spring 
one  at  his  expense.  "What  you  giving  us?" 

"Straight,"  confided  Noonan  earnestly.  "It's 
strike,  Mac,  that's  what." 

"  Strike !  "  ejaculated  McQueen,  bewildered.  "  What 
for?" 

"  What  for !  "  cried  Noonan.  "  What  for?  That's 
a  sweet  question  to  ask.  Well,  pretty  dashed  near 
everything," — he  waved  his  hand  expansively — 
"  hours,  scale,  and — and — " 

McQueen  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  not  kicking,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  see  anything  to  strike  about.  Looks 
to  me  as  though  you  fellows  were  hunting  trouble. 
You'll  probably  get  it,  what?" 

"  You  never  see  anything,"  Noonan  blurted  out, 
irritation  getting  the  better  of  diplomacy.  "  Nothing 
but  the  blamed  coal  you're  forever  yapping 
about." 

"  What  I  know  about  coal,"  returned  McQueen 
with  dignity,  "you'll  never  know.  It's  a  subject  that 
requires  brains." 

"  Is  that  so!  "  Noonan  jeered.    "  You  tell  it!  " 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  281 

"It  requires  brains/'  McQueen   repeated  stolidly. 

"  It's  a  shame  that  the  only  man  on  the  division 
that  has  'em,  don't  know  how  to  use  'em,  then," 
Noonan  prodded.  "  Who  cares  about  your  blazing  old 
coal  and  what  it's  made  of?  Talk's  cheap.  There's 
no  sense  to  it,  anyhow." 

"  Maybe  there  isn't,  and  then  again  maybe  there  is. 
At  any  rate,  there's  a  dollar  a  day  for  every  man 
pulling  a  throttle,"  McQueen  announced  triumph- 
antly. "  I  don't  know  yet  just  how  much  for  the  fire- 
men, I  haven't  figured  it  on  their  schedule." 

Noonan  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  What's  that  you 
say,  Mac,"  he  demanded. 

Here  was  McQueen's  vindication.  They'd  laugh 
at  his  absurd,  pointless  theories  on  coal,  would  they? 
Well  then,  he'd  show  them!  And  it  wasn't  any  of 
their  business,  either,  how  many  days  he'd  racked 
his  brains,  puzzling  out  an  adequate  solution  to  the 
question  Clarihue  had  flung  at  him!  He  shook  two 
impressive  fat  fingers  at  Noonan. 

"  One  dollar  a  day,  every  day,  and  the  spare  men 
proportionately,  that's  what!  Do  you  get  that, 
Noonan  ?  " 

"  Rats !  "  said  Noonan.  "  You'd  better  go  into  the 
shops  for  repairs.  You  need  new  stay-bolts  on  your 
dome  cover !  " 

"  Never  you  mind  my  dome  cover,"  McQueen 
flung  back,  beginning  to  get  exasperated.  "  It  may 
need  a  little  tinkering,  but  it's  not  ready  for  the  scrap- 
heap  yet,  the  way  some  are  I  could  mention — but 
won't.  It  all  goe§  back  to  what  I  said.  It's  a  subject 


282      ON    THE   IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD 

that  requires  brains — which  you  haven't  got.  There's 
no  use  explaining  anything  to  you  because 

"  You  can't,"  Noonan  interrupted  craftily.  "  You're 
only  long  on  wind,  Mac." 

"  You  listen  to  me,  you  rust- jointed  disgrace  to 
the  throttle ! "  cried  McQueen,  stung  into  retort. 
"  You  listen  to  me !  What  are  you  paid  for  ?  Mile- 
age, ain't  it  ?  How  do  you  get  your  mileage  ?  Steam ! 
What  makes  steam?  Coal!  D'ye  hear?  Coal!  Coal, 
and  don't  you  forget  it.  Well  then,  poor  coal  means 
poor  steam,  and  poor  steam  means  poor  mileage,  don't, 
it,  what?" 

Noonan  burst  into  a  loud  and  derisive  guffaw. 

McQueen  glared.  "  You're  a  wild,  uneducated, 
hee-hawing  ass !  "  he  choked.  "  What  do  you  know, 
anyway?  Nothing!  But  I  know!  A  dollar  a  day  I 
said,  and  I  say  so  now.  I  figured  it  out.  It's  the 
difference  between  high  grade  coal  and  the  muck  we 
burn.  It's  the  difference  between  the  mileage  we 
make  and  the  mileage  we  could  make  in  the  same  time. 
That  totes  up  one  dollar  a  day.  Supposing  they 
wouldn't  let  us  have  any  more  mileage  than  they  do 
now,  well,  we'd  do  it  in  better  time,  and  the  difference 
would  be  ours,  wouldn't  it  ?  And  time's  money.  And 
that  totes  up  one  dollar  a  day  just  the  same.  It's  the 
same  either  way — time  or  mileage.  Take  your 
choice!" 

"  There,  Johnny,  that's  a  good  boy,  run  along  and 
fetch  me  a  bucket  of  steam,"  Noonan  scoffed. 

With  a  snort  of  unutterable  contempt,  McQueen 
turned  to  swing  himself  into  his  cab. 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  283 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Mac,"  Noonan  cried,  afraid 
that  he  had  overstepped  himself.  "  Don't  get  whiffy. 
I  swear,  I  believe  you're  right.  Let's  see  how  you 
figure  it." 

And  McQueen,  mollified,  figured  it.  Figured  it 
with  the  stub  of  a  pencil  in  greasy,  scrawling  char- 
acters on  the  back  of  a  time  order.  As  to  the  pro- 
cess by  which  the  conclusion  was  arrived  at,  that  was 
something  of  which  Noonan  was  in  profound  and 
utter  ignorance.  Whether  it  was  right  or  wrong, 
he  did  not  know.  He  never  knew — and  cared  less! 
Certainly  the  result  was  there. 

McQueen  completed  the  last  figure  of  his  calcula- 
tion with  a  flourish.  "  There !  "  he  cried  exultingly. 
"  How  about  it  now,  eh?  " 

Noonan  took  the  paper,  wrinkled  his  brows,  pursed 
his  lips,  and  stared  at  it  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur 
of  calculus.  "  H'm,"  said  he  slowly,  "  are  you  dead 
sure  it's  right,  Mac  ?  " 

"  Right !  "  McQueen  fairly  yelled,  touched  in  an- 
other tender  spot.  "  Right !  Confound  you,  it's 
there  in  black  and  white,  ain't  it?  Figures  don't  lie, 
do  they?  Well,  what  in  thunder's  wrong  with  you, 
then?" 

"  I  wanted  to  be  sure,  Mac,  that's  all.  Holy  fish- 
plates, I  knew  it  was  bad,  rotten  bad,  but  I 
didn't  think  they  were  handing  it  to  us  like 
this." 

"You  bet  it's  bad.  It's  the  worst  ever.  There's 
more  kinds  of  coal  than  there  are  spikes  in  the  right 
of  way  from  here  to  Big  Cloud  and  back  again,  but 


284     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

the  coal  we  get  is  the  last  on  the  list.  Bad !  It's  what 
I've  always  said,  ain't  it?" 

"It's  fierce!"  continued  Noonan  with  rising  em- 
phasis. "  And  when  the  boys  hear  this,  it'll  be  the 
last  straw.  They'll  fix  'em  I  " 

"  Fix  who  ?  "  inquired  McQueen,  blankly. 

"  Why,  ain't  I  telling  you!    The  company." 

"  I — I  was  talking  about  the  coal,"  said  McQueen  a 
little  uneasily. 

"  Sure  you  were,"  Noonan  agreed  heartily.  "  Sure 
you  were,  and  how  the  company  is  robbing  every 
engineer  on  the  division  of  a  dollar  a  day,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  firemen  and  the  train  crews.  It's 
enough  to  make  a  man  mad.  Well,  I  should  say  yes !  " 

"  I — I  didn't  say  the  company  was  robbing  us," 
protested  McQueen. 

"  What's  that ! "  cried  Noonan  sharply ;  then  in 
apparent  disgust :  "  So  your  crazy  old  figures  are  just 
gas-bag  filling  like  the  rest  of  your  coal  talk,  eh? 
They  did  look  pretty  scaly,  and  that's  a  fact.  I  had 
my  suspicions.  That's  why  I  asked  you  if  you  were 
sure  they  were  right.  But  I  might  have  known  they 
weren't  without  asking." 

"  Oh,  you  might,  might  you  ?  "  exploded  McQueen, 
goaded  once  more  into  angry  outburst.  '  You  and 
your  suspicions!  Who  are  you!  I  tell  you  they  are 
right,  and  that's  the  end  of  it ! " 

"  Well,  if  they're  right,  why  don't  you  stand  by 
them,  then?  We're  being  robbed  every  day  we  work, 
ain't  we?" 

"  Ye-e-es,  I  suppose  we  are,"  McQueen  admitted  re- 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  285 

luctantly ;  "  but  I  didn't  figure  it  out  for  the  purpose 
of " 

"  Mac,"  Noonan  interrupted  unctuously,  "  'tain't  for 
you  nor  me  to  say  the  purpose  it's  to  be  put  to. 
There's  others  besides  us.  But  I  do  say,  Mac,  you're 
almighty  smart." 

McQueen  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  a  company  man," 
he  said  dubiously. 

"Company  man!  Of  course  you  are.  We're  all 
company  men.  But  right's  right  and  wrong's  wrong 
before  anything  else.  Well,  ta  ta,  Mac,  see  you 
again.  I'm  off.  There's  Hake  with  the  tissue.  I'll 
tell  the  boys  where  you  stand." 

It  was  a  somewhat  dazed  McQueen  that  in  turn 
pulled  himself  up  into  his  own  cab.  He  stood  in  the 
gangway  and  squinted  meditatively  at  the  coal  heaped 
high  on  the  tender.  To  his  conscientious  self-com- 
munion, his  triumphant  vindication  had  somewhat 
the  appearance  of  a  boomerang.  "  I  don't  know,"  he 
reflected.  "  It  is  damn  poor  coal,  and — and  figures 
don't  lie.  We — we've  been  getting  the  worst  of  it, 
and — and  a  man  should  stand  up  for  his  rights." 

And  while  McQueen,  busy  with  new  and  momen- 
tous problems,  was  steaming  west  into  the  Rockies, 
Noonan,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  was  cutting 
along  for  Big  Cloud  with  a  wide-flung  throttle. 

That  night,  at  Big  Cloud,  Noonan's  cronies  got  the 
story.  That  is,  they  got  what  Noonan  saw  fit  to  tell 
them.  And  the  burden  of  his  tale  was  that  McQueen 
was  with  the  Brotherhood  and  against  the  company. 
Jhat  was  sufficient.  They  looked  with  appreciative 


286     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

admiration  at  the  man  who  had  done  the  trick,  and 
then  they  flew  to  obey  his  orders. 

By  morning,  every  engineer  on  the  division  had  the 
news.  On  way  freights,  on  stray  freights,  on  regu- 
lars, specials,  and  sections,  they  got  it — every  last  one 
of  them.  And  McQueen  coming  east  again  on  Num- 
ber Two  got  it,  and  marvelled  a  little  at  his  new  im- 
portance, never  seeing  Noonan's  hand  in  the  marked 
deference  paid  to  him. 

First  and  last  it  was  a  bad  business.  Bad  for  the 
company,  bad  for  the  hot  heads  led  by  Noonan,  bad 
for  the  others,  and  bad  for  McQueen.  It  caught  the 
company  none  too  well  prepared,  and  Carleton,  for 
this  happened  in  the  days  of  his  superintendency,  was 
hard  put  to  it  to  move  anything.  There  was  pretty 
bitter  feeling;  and  before  it  was  over  there  was  blood 
spilled.  But  the  roughs  at  Big  Cloud,  who  didn't 
know  the  pilot  from  a  horn-block,  were  responsible 
for  the  most  of  that,  though,  in  their  own  way,  too, 
they  ended  it. 

It  came  to  a  show-down  the  night  they  carried 
young  Carl  Davis  home  from  the  yard  on  a  door 
they  had  wrenched  from  a  box-car.  Davis  was  brak- 
ing in  the  yard  then,  and  he  was  a  nephew  of  Mc- 
Queen's. He  had  lived  with  the  engineer  ever  since, 
as  a  little  chap  of  ten,  he  had  come  out  to  the  West. 
Childless  themselves,  McQueen  and  his  wife  thought 
as  much  of  the  lad  as  though  he  had  been  their 
own. 

McQueen  in  his  grief  didn't  get  the  rights  of  it. 
Only  in  a  confused  sort  of  a  way  he  understood  the 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  287 

roughs  had  winged  the  boy  with  a  cowardly  shot, 
meaning  perhaps  to  do  no  more  than  shoot  out  his 
lamp  as  he  swung  by  on  the  top  of  a  car.  And  while 
his  wife  with  tender  hands  busied  herself  in  render- 
ing such  assistance  to  the  surgeon  as  she  could,  Mc- 
Queen sat  in  a  chair  and  stared,  dry-eyed  and  bitter 
of  heart,  at  the  white  face  on  the  bed. 

Also  McQueen  was  getting  sense.  Certainly,  he 
had  never  intended  to  strike.  Now,  the  shock  of 
Carl's  hurt  had  sobered  his  judgment  and  he  saw 
things  as  he  should  have  seen  them,  saw  them  as  he 
cursed  himself  for  not  having  seen  them  before  he 
had  allowed  his  senseless  egotism  to  carry  him  off  his 
feet.  As  the  thoughts  came  crowding  through  his 
brain,  his  cheeks  burned  dull  red  at  his  own  shame. 
But  through  it  all  he  blamed  only  himself,  with  never 
an  inkling  that  he  had  been  used  as  a  cat's-paw  by  the 
crafty  Noonan — that  was  to  come  afterward. 

McQueen  waited  only  to  wring  a  half-grudging 
assurance  from  the  doctor  that  the  boy  would  pull 
through,  then  he  took  his  hat  and  left  the  house.  It 
was  getting  on  toward  eleven  o'clock  when  he  walked 
into  the  hall  across  from  the  station  where  the  boys 
had  their  headquarters,  and  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
congregating  each  night  ever  since  the  strike  began. 
Usually  noisy  in  a  good-natured,  devil-may-care  way, 
there  was  a  subdued  and  serious  quiet  pervading  the 
room  as  McQueen  stepped  in.  The  shooting  in  the 
yard  was  something  they  had  not  counted  on  and,  like 
McQueen,  it  was  acting  on  them  as  a  tonic.  All 
except  Noonan  who,  evidently  bolstered  up  with  a  few 


288      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

drinks,  was  more  noisy,  hilarious  and  quarrelsome 
than  ever. 

McQueen  answered  the  questions  they  crowded  at 
him  as  to  the  boy's  condition  soberly,  and  going  over 
to  Noonan  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  into  a 
corner. 

:(  The  game  ain't  worth  it,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I've 
had  my  lesson  to-night  and  I'm  through !  " 

;<  What  for  ? "  demanded  Noonan  aggressively. 
"  We  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  We're  not 
responsible,  are  we?" 

"  We  are,"  said  McQueen  sturdily.  "  Morally  re- 
sponsible." 

"  Morally  responsible !  "  Noonan  mocked  with  a 
sneer.  "  Oh,  mamma,  listen  to  him !  Streak  of 
yellow,  that's  you,  McQueen."  Then  fiercely :  "  You 
play  the  scab  and  I'll  bash  your  head  to  jelly." 

"  You're  drunk,"  retorted  McQueen  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  Drunk,  eh  ?  I'm  not  so  drunk  but  that  I  know 
who's  running  this  strike.  It's  me,  and  don't  you 
foget  it!  And  what  I  says  goes,  d'ye  hear?  " 

"  I'm  asking  you  to  call  it  off.  Blood  on  our  heads 
I  won't  stand  for.  Our  grievances  don't  warrant 
what's  likely  to  happen  here  if  things  go  on.  You 
owe  it  to  the  men  who  followed  you  into  the  strike, 
Noonan." 

"  Oh,  I  do,  do  I  ?  Followed  me  into  the  strike, 
eh?  How  about  the  men  that  followed  you?" 

"  That  followed  me  ? "  repeated  McQueen  in 
amazement. 


McQUEEN'S    HOBBY  289 

"Sure,  that  followed  you!  You  didn't  think  I 
took  any  stock  in  your  batty  coal  talk,  did  you? 
You  must  think  I'm  green !  All  I  wanted  was  you — 
you  bit  fast  and  easy  enough — the  rest  of  the  softies 
came  along  then  like  a  pack  of  sheep.  What  d'ye 
think  now  about  me  owing  it  all  to  the  men,  Mr. 
Morally  Responsible,  eh  ?  " 

It  took  McQueen  a  minute  to  get  the  whole  of  it — 
the  bitter  whole  of  it.  Then  the  blood  rushed  to  his 
face  in  a  crimson  flood.  He  reached  out  and  grasp- 
ing Noonan  by  neck  and  shoulders  shook  him  as 
a  terrier  shakes  a  rat.  "  You  cur !  "  he  cried  hoarsely, 
and  flung  the  other  suddenly  away  against  the 
wall. 

The  men  at  the  sound  of  the  scuffle  came  running 
over. 

"  He's  a  scab !    Kill  him !  "  shrieked  Noonan. 

McQueen  turned  to  face  the  men.  "If  beating 
this  strike's  a  scab,  I'm  a  scab,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I'm 
out  to  beat  it  right  now !  I've  been  a  fool  and  I'm 
ready  to  admit  it.  But  I  didn't  know  until  to-night 
that  I'd  been  bait  for  a  whining  thing  like  that !  " 
pointing  at  Noonan.  "  He  says  some  of  you  men 
came  in  on  the  strike  because  I  did.  If  that's  so,  then 
get  out  of  it  because  I  do.  Get  out  of  it  before  there's 
more  on  our  hands  than  we'll  be  able  to  answer  for 
when  we  go  into  Division  for  the  last  time.  That's 
all  I've  got  to  say.  I'm  going  over  now  to  ask  Carle- 
ton  to  put  me  on  again,  if  it's  nothing  better  than 
pulling  a  way  freight.  And — and  I  hope  you'll  come 
with  me." 


290     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD; 

As  the  flood  follows  the  fracture  in  the  dam,  so  the 
breaking  of  the  tension  filled  the  room  with  pande- 
monium. Cheers,  yells,  hisses,  curses,  shouts — the 
Brotherhood  was  divided  against  itself.  But  ten 
minutes  later,  the  majority  of  them  were  clustered 
behind  McQueen  in  the  super's  office. 

Carleton  and  his  staff  were  sleeping  at  headquarters 
those  days,  and  they  gathered  in  a  group  around  the 
green-shaded  lamp  on  the  dispatcher's  table  to  face 
the  delegation. 

"  Mr.  Carleton/'  McQueen  began,  "  we " 

That  was  all.  He  never  got  any  further.  From 
the  platform  outside  came  hoots  and  cat-calls,  and 
above  the  chorus  Noonan's  voice: 

"  Soak  the  scab!  Kill  him!  If  he's  so  fond  of  it, 
let  him  have  it !  Now!  " 

The  window  pane  was  shivered  with  a  crash,  and 
McQueen,  struck  full  in  the  head  by  a  huge  hunk  of 
coal,  sank  without  so  much  as  a  moan  to  the 
floor. 

They  cured  him  of  brain  fever  in  the  course  of  time 
all  right,  but  they  never  cured  him  of  coal.  Up  and 
down  from  one  end  of  the  division  to  the  other,  when 
he  got  around  again,  he  talked  coal  harder  than  ever 
— it  was  his  business.  McQueen  was  doing  the  buy- 
ing for  the  road. 

''  There  wasn't  anything  wrong  with  what  I  said 
about  coal,"  he  asserts  with  a  smile,  when  the  boys 
put  it  up  to  him.  "  Not  for  a  minute !  Good  coal 
makes  better  steam,  better  everything,  and  pays  the 
company.  They  saw  that  all  right.  That's  why  I'm 


MCQUEEN'S    HOBBY  291 

buying  it,  see?  As  for  figuring  it  into  the  schedule, 
the  sum  was  too  hard  and  they  couldn't  do  it.  Me? 
Oh,  I  can't,  either,  I  lost  the  paper  I  did  it  for  Noonan 
on.  I  ain't  so  good  on  figures  as  I  was,  what?  " 


XIII 
THE  REBATE 

HE  was  known  as  Dutchy,  but  his  name  was  Dam- 
rosch.  This  is  Dutchy's  story  when  Dutchy  and  the 
Transcontinental  were  in  the  making;  and  before,  as 
has  been  recorded  elsewhere,  he  came  to  Big  Cloud. 
He  started  railroading  as  cook's  helper  on  a  con- 
struction gang  that  was  laying  track  across  the  prairie. 
As  the  mileage  grew,  so  Dutchy  grew.  At  first  lank 
and  lean,  he  took  on,  little  by  little,  the  appearance  of 
being  comfortably  nourished,  until,  by  the  time  they 
hit  the  Rockies,  Dutchy's  gait  had  become  a  waddle 
and  his  innocent  blue  eyes  were  almost  hidden  by  the 
great  rolls  of  fat  that  puffed  out  his  face  like  a  toy 
balloon.  Then  Dutchy,  slow  of  body  and  likewise  of 
brain,  and  yearning  for  a  quiet  and  peaceful  existence, 
secured  the  lunch-counter  rights  for  Dry  Notch. 

Now,  Dry  Notch,  half-way  across  the  prairie,  con- 
sisted of  a  water-tank,  a  small  roundhouse,  a  smaller 
station  and  a  diminutive  general  store.  But  because 
of  its  geographical  position,  it  was  headquarters  for 
the  Mid-Plains  Division. 

Here,  T.  V.  Brett  was  superintendent;  Thornley 
was  his  chief  clerk;  and  MacDonald  was  dispatcher. 
And  these,  with  the  railroad  hands  and  train-crews 
comprised  the  population  of  Dry  Notch,  unless  there 

292 


THE    REBATE  293 

might  be  added  a  few  ranchers  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood. 

The  staff  bunked  in  a  room  over  the  station,  and 
the  men  had  their  quarters  in  the  roundhouse,  but 
one  and  all  they  ate  at  Dutchy's  counter.  Sinkers 
and  coffee,  apple  pie  and  sandwiches  they  stood  as  a 
steady  diet  for  a  month  after  he  had  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  and  then  a  delegation  waited  upon  him 
and  demanded  dishes  more  substantial. 

"  You  can  make  meat  pies  and  chicken  stew  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  can't  you  ?  "  they  demanded. 

"  Sure !  "  said  Dutchy.     "  But  dot  iss  expensive." 

Money  was  no  object,  they  assured  him,  and 
thereupon  proceeded  to  fix  a  schedule  of  prices — 
fifteen  cents  for  a  meat  pie ;  twenty  cents  for  a  chicken 
stew — with  two  slices  of  bread  and  butter  thrown  in 
for  good  measure. 

"  Veil/'  said  Dutchy,  "  so  iss  it." 

And  a  few  nights  later,  true  to  his  promise,  they 
got  their  chicken  stew — canned  chicken  stew. 

The  huge  pot,  full  to  the  brim,  had  been  emptied, 
and  Dutchy,  his  face  beaming  with  smiles,  had  bustled 
into  the  back  room  for  a  further  supply,  when  Mac- 
Donald's  voice  rose  plaintively: 

"  It's— it's  chicken,  isn't  it?  " 

The  crowd  looked  inquiringly  at  the  dispatcher. 

"  Because,"  went  on  MacDonald  softly,  "  I — never 
heard  of  any  chickens  in  Dry  Notch." 

And  then,  amid  the  laughter  that  ensued,  Thornley 
rose  dramatically  from  his  seat,  and,  picking  up  a 
bone  from  his  plate,  waved  it  aloft. 


294      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  Gentlemen,  this  is  no  time  for  mirth ! "  he  cried. 
"We  are  the  victims  of  a  swindle.  We  are  in  the 
clutch  of  an  octopus—that  is  to  say,  a  food  trust, 
composed  of  Dutchy  and  the  dining-car  conductors 
of  Numbers  One  and  Two.  It  is  my  painful  duty  to 
assert  that  I  recognize  this  bone  as  the  identical  bone  on 
which  I  fed  two  nights  ago  coming  up  the  line  on 
Number  One." 

Dutchy  entered,  staggering  under  the  load  of  the  re- 
plenished pot,  when  Thornley  solemnly  demanded  a 
rebate  on  the  spot. 

:<  Vat  iss  it  ?  "  said  Dutchy,  halting  and  peering 
anxiously  into  the  pot ;  then,  evidently  reassured  that 
no  essential  ingredient  had  been  forgotten,  he  looked 
up  at  the  ring  of  faces  that  were  regarding  him  with 
grave  inquiry.  "Vat  iss  a  repate?"  he  demanded. 
"  It  something  iss  mit  der  bread  und  butter  for  twenty 
cents  to  go,  yess  ?  " 

The  crowd  roared,  and  up  and  down  the  division 
train-crews,  engine-crews,  and  section-gangs  got  the 
joke  and  passed  it  on  until  the  lunch-counter  became 
known  to  every  man  on  the  system  as  "The 
Rebate." 

They  did  not  explain  the  joke  to  Dutchy,  and  for 
days  he  endured  the  chaff  stolidly,  though  with 
much  bewilderment,  until,  one  afternoon,  MacDonald 
patiently  and  ploddingly  acquainted  him  with  the  un- 
hallowed baseness  of  one  Thornley — helping  himself, 
by  way  of  compensation,  to  the  heap  of  doughnuts 
under  the  glass  cover. 

Dutchy   listened,    his    cheeks    getting   redder    and 


THE    REBATE  -295 

redder  as  MacDonald,  exaggerating  some  hundred- 
fold, suavely  rubbed  it  in. 

"  Dot  Thornley  iss — iss  a  pig !  "  shouted  Dutchy 
suddenly,  as  the  light  burst  in  upon  him. 

MacDonald  nodded  assent,  his  mouth  too  full  of 
doughnut  to  speak. 

"  Und  I  a  fool  iss,  yess  ?  "  continued  the  proprietor, 
pounding  a  fat  fist  on  the  counter. 

Again  MacDonald  nodded,  smiling  sweetly — and 
reached  for  another  doughnut. 

But  this  time  Dutchy's  fingers  were  firmly  clasped 
around  the  cover,  and  he  peered  suspiciously  through 
the  glass  at  the  number  of  doughnuts  remaining, 
then  glared  at  the  dispatcher. 

"  You — you  git  out  from  here !  "  he  said  slowly,  but 
with  rising  emphasis. 

And  MacDonald,  chuckling,  went. 

It  was  not  until  after  supper  that  same  evening, 
when  Number  One  pulled  in,  that  Dutchy  made  any 
move  toward  retribution — then  Dutchy  cut  loose.  It 
was  Taggart  who  got  it — little  Shorty  Taggart,  the 
driver  of  Number  One,  who  was  red-haired  and  an 
inveterate  joker,  and  likewise  a  great  crony  of 
Thornley's. 

The  first  intimation  MacDonald  had  that  anything 
was  up  was  an  enraged  howl  that,  rising  above  the 
tumult  of  the  station,  reached  him  where  he  sat  in 
the  dispatcher's  office.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
voice — it  was  Dutchy's.  MacDonald  stuck  his  head 
hastily  out  of  the  window,  while  Thornley,  who  was 
in  the  room,  leaned  over  his  shoulder. 


296     ON    THE    IRON    AT    BIG    CLOUD: 

Dutchy  was  bellowing  like  a  mad  bull.  "  Say  it ! 
Shusht  say  it.  Oh!  py  golly!  " 

Here  followed  a  volcanic  eruption  of  guttural 
German  with  one  or  two  words  common  to  all  lan- 
guages intermingled. 

Then,  flying  through  the  doorway  of  the  lunch- 
room, dashing  down  the  platform,  scattering 
loungers,  passengers,  and  car-tinks  in  all  directions, 
in  a  mad  rush  for  the  engine  end  of  the  train,  tore  a 
short  figure  in  tight-fitting,  bandy-legged  overalls, 
whose  flaming  red  hair  presented  a  shining  mark  for 
the  plate  that  whizzed  past  his  ear  and  smashed  into  a 
hundred  pieces  against  a  baggage-truck. 

And  Dutchy,  blowing  hard,  his  sleeves  rolled  up 
over  the  fat  of  his  arms,  waddled  to  the  center  of  the 
platform  and  shook  a  frantic  fist  after  the  retreating 
engineer. 

"la  fool  iss  no  longer  yet,  don'd  it  ?  "  he  screamed, 
and,  puffing  his  cheeks  in  and  out  like  a  whezzy  in- 
jector, he  turned,  reentered  the  restaurant,  and  the 
door  closed  behind  him  with  a  resounding 
bang. 

MacDonald  drew  in  his  head,  and  the  tears  were 
running  down  his  cheeks  as  he  held  his 
sides. 

Thornley  groped  for  a  chair. 

"  Guess  Taggart  was  asking  for  a  rebate/'  he 
gasped.  "  It  was  worth  pay  to  see  him  run." 

"  You  bet !  "  said  MacDoneld  eloquently,  when  he 
could  get  his  breath. 

The  door  opened,  and  Brett,  the  super,  came  in. 


THE    REBATE  297 

"D'ye  see  Taggart  and  Dutchy,  Brett?"  cried 
Thornley. 

"Yes,"  said  Brett,  laughing.  Then,  more  seri- 
ously :  "  Look  here,  you'd  better  patch  it  up  with 
Dutchy.  There's  no  use  rubbing  it  in  too  hard. 
MacDonald,  tell  Blaney  to  put  my  car  on  Number  Two 
when  she  comes  in.  I'm  going  east  to-night." 

The  patching,  however,  was  quite  a  different  matter 
than  talking  about  it. 

The  next  morning  the  lunch-room  door  was  omi- 
nously closed — and  the  staff  went  breakfastless.  By 
listening  at  the  keyhole,  and  from  an  occasional 
glimpse  through  the  window,  they  knew  that  Dutchy 
was  inside. 

But  to  pleadings,  threats,  and  door-kickings 
the  occupant  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  oblivi- 
ous. Things  began  to  look  serious  for  the  staff  and 
station  hands  who  were  wont  to  depend  on  Dutchy 
for  their  grub-stakes. 

Thornley  whistled  softly  and  pulled  at  his  pipe,  his 
feet  on  the  dispatcher's  desk. 

"  He'll  have  to  open  up  when  Number  Ninety-Seven 
pulls  in,"  Thornley  was  saying,  more  by  way  of  re- 
assuring himself  than  of  presenting  any  new  view  of 
the  case  to  MacDonald.  "  The  company  won't  stand 
for  any  inconvenience  to  the  passengers — that  is  "  he 
hastened  to  amend,  "  not  of  this  kind.  What  ? 
TheyVe  got  a  sort  of  lien  on  that  joint,  and  if  he 
waits  for  them  to  get  after  him  he'll  get  into  troublev 
Wish  Brett  were  back — he'd  make  him  open  up 
quick,  I  guess.  What's  the  matter  with  Number 


298      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Ninety-Seven,  anyhow  ?  Thought  you  said  she  was  on 
time?" 

"  So  she  is,"  said  MacDonald,  grinning.  "  Hear 
her?" 

From  the  eastward  came  the  hoarse  shriek  from 
the  whistle  of  a  five-hundred  class. 

"  Guess  I'll  go  down,"  said  Thornley.    "  Coming?  " 

MacDonald  nodded  and  got  up  from  his  chair. 
The  two  men  reached  the  platform  in  time  to  acknowl- 
edge a  flirt  of  the  hand  from  Sanders  in  the  cab  as  the 
big  machine,  wheel-tires  sparking  from  the  tight-set 
brakes,  rolled  slowly  past  them,  coming  to  a  halt 
farther  on. 

Simultaneously  the  door  of  the  lunch-room  swung 
wide  open,  and  on  the  threshold,  completely  filling 
the  opening  with  his  bulk,  stood  Dutchy.  In  his  left 
hand  he  held  his  bell,  which  he  began  to  ring  clamor- 
ously; in  his  right  hand,  almost  but  not  quite  con- 
cealed behind  his  apron,  was  no  less  a  weapon  than 
a  substantial-looking  rolling-pin.  A  crowd  of  pas- 
sengers began  to  surge  toward  the  restaurant,  and 
among  them  mingled  the  hungry  railroad  men  of 
Dry  Notch. 

"Come  on!"  shouted  Thornley  exultantly.  "I 
knew  he'd  have  to  open  up.  Here's  where  we  feed 
— h'm?" 

:<  Vait !  "  cried  Dutchy  imperiously,  as  the  head  of 
the  column  reached  him.  "  You,  yess ;  you,  no.  Vat 
iss  it  ?  "  He  was  sorting  the  sheep  from  the  goats, 
allowing  the  passengers  to  enter,  pushing  the  railroad- 
ers ruthlessly  to  one  side. 


THE    REBATE  299 

"  You,  yess ;  you,  no.  You,  yess ;  you— oh !  py 
golly!" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  Thornley,  and,  swinging 
suddenly,  struck  out  viciously  in  that  direction  with 
the  rolling-pin.  Being  obliged,  however,  to  maintain 
his  position  in  the  doorway,  the  strategic  key  to  the 
situation,  the  jab  fell  short  by  two  or  three  inches, 
barely  missing  Thornley's  nose. 

Thornley  fell  back  instinctively. 

"  Look  here,  you  old  ass ! "  he  yelled  angrily, 
"  we've  had  about  enough  of  this.  It's  past  a  joke. 
The  company's  got  a  lien  on  that  joint  of  yours,  and 
we'll  close  it  up  so  tight  you'll  never  open  it  again — 
d'ye  hear?" 

Dutchy  stopped  short  in  the  monotonous,  "  You, 
yess;  you,  no,"  on  which  he  had  recommenced,  and 
his  paunch  began  to  shake. 

"Yah!"  he  cried.  "Dot  iss  a  joke.  Oh,  py 
golly,  lean!  Dot  iss  ven  you  ge-starving  get,  yah? 
Ho,  ho !  Ha,  ha !  " 

In  Dutch's  burst  of  merriment  first  one  and  then 
another  joined,  until  even  Thornley,  his  good  nature 
getting  the  better  of  him,  roared  with  the  rest  at  his 
own  expense. 

But  if  this  apparent  return  to  good  humor  on 
Dutchy's  part  inspired  any  hope  in  the  minds  of  the 
railroad  men  that  he  had  relented  and  that  former 
friendly  relations  were  to  be  resumed,  they  were 
doomed  to  disappointment,  for  Dutchy  stolidly  con- 
tinued to  allow  the  passengers  to  go  in  and  as  stolidly 
barred  the  entrance  to  the  others. 


300     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Then  they  gave  it  up,  and  bought  out  the  slender 
stock  of  canned  goods  and  biscuits  from  the  shelves 
of  the  general  store. 

They  messed  in  the  baggage-room  and  they  swal- 
lowed their  scanty  portions  to  the  tune  of  "  Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein,"  bellowed  out  by  a  strong  and 
sonorous  voice,  through  the  partition,  on  the  other  side 
of  which,  laid  out  in  tempting  confusion,  as  they  were 
painfully  aware,  was  plenty. 

What  they  had,  however,  did  little  more  than  whet 
their  appetites,  and  by  three  o'clock  some  of  the  men 
were  talking  of  carrying  the  position  by  storm,  help- 
ing themselves,  and  doing  a  few  fancy  stunts  with 
Dutchy. 

:<  We  can't  have  any  row,"  said  Thornley,  pulling  at 
his  mustache  and  staring  at  MacDonald.  "  What 
had  we  better  do?  The  boys'll  be  pulling  the  old 
shack  down  around  his  ears.  He'll  fight  like  blazes, 
and  some  one'll  get  hurt.  And  then  the  com- 
pany'11  want  to  know  what's  what.  Say,  the  old 
geeser  has  got  us  where  he  wants  us,  sure — eh, 
what?" 

MacDonald  nodded. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  Thornley  went  on  im- 
pressively, "  there's  some  one  besides  Dutchy  in  this. 
They've  been  giving  him  a  steer,  and  I'd  give  a  few 
to  know  who  it  is.  It's  mighty  queer  Dutchy  would 
wake  up  so  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  joke. 
Then,  there  isn't  enough  to  that  rebate  josh  to  make 
him  so  sore.  Some  one's  been  stringing  him  good 
and  plenty.  What  had  we  better  do  ?  " 


THE    REBATE  301 

"I  don't  know/*  MacDonald  answered.  "Let's 
go  and  see  if  we  can't  talk  him  over." 

At  the  sight  of  Thornley  and  the  dispatcher  head- 
ing for  the  lunch-room,  the  trainmen  and  station- 
hands  fell  in  behind  them. 

MacDonald  halted  a  few  paces  from  the  door. 

"  You  boys,  stay  here,"  he  directed.  "  Let  me  see 
what  I  can  do." 

Thornley  and  the  men  halted  obediently,  while 
MacDonald  went  on  and  knocked  at  the  door.  There 
was  no  response. 

"But— Mr.  Damrosch!"  he  called.  "It's  Mac- 
Donald.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

This  time  his  knock  was  answered,  and  so  suddenly 
as  to  cause  him  to  jump  back  in  surprise. 

"  Veil,  vat  iss  it  ? "  demanded  Dutchy,  scowling 
belligerently. 

"  We're — we're — "  stammered  MacDonald,  his 
confidence  a  little  shaken  at  the  proprietor's  attitude. 
Then,  desperately :  "  Oh,  I  say,  confound  it  all, 
Dutchy,  we're  hungry." 

"  So !  "  Dutchy 's  exclamation  was  a  world  of  in- 
nocent astonishment  and  kindly  interest. 

''  Yes,"  went  on  MacDonald,  diplomatically. 
'  You  bet  we  are.  It's  been  a  good  joke,  but  you've 
had  the  best  end  of  it.  Let's  call  it  quits,  there's  a 
good  fellow,  and — and  give  us  all  a  hand- 
out." 

Dutchy  listened  attentively  to  the  appeal. 

"  I,  a  fool  iss  no  longer  yet,  don'd  it  ?  "  he  queried 
softly. 


302      ON   THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"You  most  decidedly  are  not,"  MacDonald  as- 
sured him. 

"You  vill  for  repates  no  longer  ask,  yet?"  per- 
sisted Mr.  Damrosch. 

"  Not  on  your  life !  "  replied  the  dispatcher  earn- 
estly, beginning  to  see  daylight.  "That's  all  off. 
We'll  apologize,  too,  if  you  like.  I  promise  you, 
we  are  quite  willing  to  apologize." 

:<  Veil,  den,"  announced  Mr.  Damrosch,  "  ve  vill 
aggravate " — and  he  slammed  the  door  in  Mac- 
Donald's  face. 

"Oh,  hold  on,  Dutchy!"  cried  MacDonald  pit- 
eously,  for  he  was  very  hungry.  "  What  did  you 
say?  " 

:<  Vat  I  said  iss  dot  ve  vill  aggravate !  "  shouted 
Dutchy  from  the  other  side  of  the  door.  "  Dot  iss 
English,  don'd  it  ?  Aggravate !  " 

"  He  means  arbitrate,"  prompted  Thornley  from 
the  platform. 

"Oh,  all  right!"  said  MacDonald.  "We'll  agree 
to  that,  Dutchy.  Come  on open  up !  " 

"  I  vill  not  mit  you  aggra — arra — do  it — hang  dot 
vord !  "  Dutchy  asserted  decisively,  but  again  opening 
the  door.  "  But  mit  Mister  Brett  I  vill  do  it." 

"  But  Mr.  Brett  isn't  here,  you  know  that,"  retorted 
MacDonald,  beginning  to  get  exasperated.  "  And, 
what's  more,  he  won't  be  back  until  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. I  guess  you  know  that,  too,  don't 
you?" 

Dutchy  smiled  a  patient,  chiding  smile.  "  Dot  iss 
too  bad,"  he  remarked  regretfully.  "  But  dot  Thorn- 


THE    REBATE  303 

ley  a  pig  iss,  und  you — oh,  py  golly!  you — I  could 
not  you  pelief.  Ve  vill  vait  for  Mister  Brett/* 

He  was  closing  the  door  again,  when  MacDonald 
put  his  foot  against  the  jamb  and,  leaning  toward 
Dutchy,  said  quickly,  in  an  undertone : 

"  Look  here,  Dutchy,  you're  going  too  far.  If  I 
couldn't  see  any  farther  than  you,  I'd  wear  glasses. 
Now's  the  time  to  make  your  deal.  I'll  help  you — 
see?  You  can  get  anything  out  of  the  boys  now,  but 
you  push  them  too  far  and  they'll  pull  the  whole  outfit 
down  over  your  ears.  You  say  what  you  want,  and 
I'll  get  it  for  you." 

Dutchy  looked  meditatively  into  MacDonald's  face, 
and  shook  his  head  with  a  sad  smile  of  wisdom. 

"  I  could  not  you  pelief,"  he  repeated. 

"  You  don't  have  to.  You  don't  have  to  believe  any- 
body. Whatever  you  want  us  to  do  we'll  do  before 
you  let  us  in  to  eat.  You  can't  lose.  What  do  you 
say?" 

Mr.  Damrosch  scratched  his  head  pensively,  without 
taking  his  eyes  off  the  dispatcher.  After  a  minute  he 
tapped  MacDonald  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Veil,"  he  announced,  "  I  vill  tell  you.     Listen." 

MacDonald  listened — incredulously.  Then  he 
whistled  a  low,  long-drawn-out  note  of  consternation. 

"  Well,  you've  got  a  nerve !  "  he  gasped.  "  What 
do  you  think,  eh?  The  boys'll  never — "  He  stopped 
suddenly,  a  smile  came  over  his  face,  and  he  chuckled 
softly  to  himself.  "  Dutchy,  you're  great !  It'll  be 
meat  for  the  boys  to  make  Thornley  stand  for  it. 
That's  what  you  want  to  do — make  Thornley  stand 


304     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

for  it.  Will  the  boys  make  him?  Oh,  will  they! 
Give  them  the  chance.  That's  the  way  to  handle  it. 
I  told  you  I'd  help  you.  Now,  make  your  spiel." 

MacDonald  turned  to  the  group  on  the  platform. 
"  Dutchy'll  arbitrate !  "  he  cried. 

At  this  the  men  began  to  push  forward,  but  Dutchy 
stopped  them.  "  Vait  as  you  iss !  Ven  der — der — 
hang  dot  word — iss,  den  iss  it.  Vait!  " 

They  waited,  and  Dutchy  began  to  count  on  his  fin- 
gers. "  Dere  iss  sixteen  dot  breakfasted  didn'd," 
he  began.  "  Dot — iss — iss — " 

"  Average  'em  up  at  a  quarter  apiece,"  prompted 
MacDonald  in  a  whisper.  "  That  makes  four  dol- 
lars." 

"  Iss  four  dollars — yess,"  went  on  Dutchy.  "  Veil, 
I  vant  dot.  Dere  iss  der  crews  dot  in-came  und  out- 
vent  und  didn'd  eat  ven  der  door  vas  closed.  Dot  iss 
two  dollars — yess?  Veil,  I  vant  dot." 

The  men  came  to,  and  a  roar  of  derision  rent  the 
air,  in  the  face  of  which  even  Dutchy  was  a  little 
shaken. 

"  Stand  pat,"  encouraged  MacDonald.  "  You've 
got  them  coming  and  going." 

Dutchy  held  up  his  hand  for  silence.  "  Dere  iss  der 
sixteen  over  again  yet  dot  dinnered  didn'd.  Dot  iss 
four  dollars — yess?  Veil,  I  vant  dot.  Dot  iss  four 
und  two  and  four.  Dot  iss  ten  dollars — don'd  it? 
Veil,  I  vant  dot,  und  den  you  come  in — yess,  one  py 
one — for  a  quarter  py  each." 

Then,  amid  the  storm  of  abuse  and  jeers  that 
greeted  Dutchy's  ultimatum,  MacDonald,  with  a 


THE    REBATE  305 

final  injunction  to  the  proprietor  to  stand  by  his  guns, 
turned  and  joined  Thornley  and  the  men. 

"  Veil,  py  golly !  "  screamed  Dutchy  above  the  din. 
"  Vat  iss  it?  Who  was  der  commencer  of  dot  joke 
dot  iss  ten  dollars  to  pay?  It  iss  dot  Thornley! " 

"  Why,  you  wretched  old  thief,"  yelled  Thornley, 
"  do  you  think  we're  going  to  pay  you  for  grub  we 
didn't  get,  because  you  wouldn't  let  us  have  it,  and 
then  pay  you  for  it  again  when  you  do  dole  it  out? 
We'll  see  you  further,  first." 

"  It  vas  agreed  in  front  of  der — hang  dot  word ! — 
py  der—" 

"  Agreed  nothing !  "  snorted  Thornley. 

"Dot  you  vill  for  repates  no  longer  ask,  yet,  don'd 
it  ?  Veil,  der  price  ten  dollars  iss.  Dere  iss  no  repate. 
Oh,  py  golly,  Mister  Thornley,  dot  vas  an  expensive 
joke — yess?  Dot  vas  your  joke,  und  I  shusht  thought 
me  dot  I  hope  you  will  pay  dot  yourself." 

Thornley  paid.  With  no  good  grace,  but  because, 
as  MacDonald  had  said  they  would,  the  men  made 
him.  Disgruntled  and  angry,  he  led  the  file  into  the 
restaurant,  placing  ten  dollars  and  twenty-five  cents 
in  Dutchy's  hand  before  he  crossed  the  threshold. 

Behind  him  followed  MacDonald  and  the  grinning 
line  of  men,  each  contributing  their  quarters — in 
advance — for  the  first  square  meal  they  had  had  that 
day. 

"  Eat  vat  you  like,"  said  Dutchy  magnanimously. 

Thornley  glared.  "  Eat  vat  you  like !  Eat  vat  you 
like !  "  he  mimicked  savagely.  "  I  like  your  colossal 
generosity  at  my  expense !  " 


306     ON   THE   IRON    AT   BIG    CLOUD 

For  a  long  time  there  was  no  other  noise  save  the 
rattle  of  dishes  and  the  busy  clatter  of  knives,  forks, 
and  spoons.  Then  Thornley  beckoned  to  Dutchy. 

'  Veil,  vat  iss  it  ?  "  inquired  the  proprietor  from  be- 
hind the  counter. 

"  Who  put  you  on  to  this  ?  "  demanded  Thornley. 
"I've  had  to  stand  for  it,  and  I'd  like  to  know.  I 
would  that! " 

MacDonald,  sitting  beside  Thornley,  noticed,  with 
some  misgivings,  a  peculiar  expression  sweep  over 
Dutchy's  face,  but  to  his  relief  the  proprietor's  only 
reply  was  a  grunt,  as  he  answered  a  call  for  more 
coffee. 

"  By  the  hokey,  I'll  bet  it  was  that  red-haired  Tag- 
gart!"  exclaimed  Thornley  suddenly,  turning  to  the 
dispatcher. 

MacDonald  buried  his  face  in  his  cup,  ostensibly  to 
drain  the  last  drop,  then  he  set  it  down  quickly  and 
jerked  his  watch  from  his  pocket. 

"Holy  Moses!"  he  ejaculated,  and  fled  from  the 
room. 

An  hour  later,  as  Thornley  was  again  sitting  with  his 
feet  on  MacDonald's  desk,  Dutchy  stuck  his  head  into 
the  room  and  beckoned  to  the  dispatcher.  Mac- 
Donald  walked  across  the  floor  and  joined  him. 
Dutchy  pulled  him  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the 
door. 

"  Dere  iss  one  thing  dot  I  forgotted  did,"  announced 
Mr.  Damrosch. 

"What's  that?"  inquired   MacDonald. 

"  Dere  iss  five  doughnuts  dot  iss  paid  for  not." 


THE   REBATE  307 

"Oh!  "said  MacDonald. 

"  Dot  vas  der  time  you  told  dot  it  vas  Thornley — 
yess  ?  Dot  vas  von  dollar  py  each.  Veil,  I  vant  dot — 
yess?" 

"  Really !"  laughed  MacDonald.  "Well,  I  guess 
not! " 

"  Dot — vas — der — time  " — Dutchy  was  raising  his 
voice,  each  word  growing  louder  and  more  distinct 
than  the  preceding  one.  Thornley's  chair  inside 
creaked  ominously.  MacDonald  glanced  furtively  to- 
ward the  door,  and  his  face  grew  red — "  you — told — 
dot " 

With  a  hasty  movement,  MacDonald  clapped  one 
hand  over  Dutchy's  mouth,  and  with  the  other  thrust 
a  five-dollar  bill  into  his  fingers. 

"  Get  out !  "  he  choked,  and  shoved  Dutchy  violently 
toward  the  stairs. 

At  the  bottom,  Dutchy  halted,  turned  and  looked  up 
with  a  grin. 

"  Py  golly,"  said  he,  "  I  shusht  thought  me  dot  I  like 
jokes  pretty  good,  and  I  hope  dot " 

"  Oh,  shut  up !  "  said  MacDonald. 


XIV 

SPECKLES 

THIS  happened  at  a  period  in  the  history  of  the  Hill 
Division  when  trade  was  very  bad,  and  the  directors, 
scowling  over  the  company's  annual  report,  threw  up 
their  hands  in  holy  horror;  while  from  the  sacred 
precincts  of  the  board-room  there  emanated  the 
agonized  cry: 

"  Economy !  " 

The  general  manager  took  up  the  slogan  and  dinned 
it  into  the  ears  of  the  division  superintendents. 

"  Operating  expenses  are  too  high,"  he  wrote. 
"  They  must  be  cut  down."  And  the  superintendents 
of  divisions,  painfully  alive  to  the  fact  that  the  G.  M. 
was  not  dictating  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  it,  intimated 
in  unmistakable  language  to  the  heads  of  departments 
under  them  that  the  next  quarterly  reports  were  ex- 
pected to  show  a  marked  improvement. 

John  Healy  had  charge  of  the  roundhouse  at  Big 
Cloud,  in  those  days,  and  the  morning  after  the  light- 
ning struck  the  system  he  came  fuming  back  across 
the  yards  from  his  interview  with  the  superintendent, 
stuttering  angrily  to  himself.  As  he  stamped  into  the 
running-shed  his  humor  a  shade  worse  than  usual  the 
first  object  that  caught  his  eye  was  Speckles,  squatted 
on  the  lee  side  of  483,  dangling  his  legs  in  the  pit. 

308 


SPECKLES  309 

That  is,  it  would  have  been  the  lee  side  if  Healy  had 
come  in  the  other  door. 

"  Cut  down  operatin'  expinses,  is  ut?  "  Healy  mut- 
tered. "  Begorra,  I'll  begin  right  now !  " 

And  he  fired  Speckles  on  the  spot. 

Now,  Speckles — whose  name,  by  the  way,  was 
Dolivar  Washington  Babson — had  been  fired  on 
several  occasions  before,  and  if  he  swallowed  a  little 
more  tobacco-juice  than  was  good  for  his  physical 
comfort  it  was  rather  as  a  gulp  of  startled  surprise  at 
Healy's  appearance  than  because  of  any  poignant 
regret  at  the  misfortune  that  had  overtaken  him. 
Nevertheless,  he  felt  it  incumbent  on  himself  to  ex- 
postulate. 

"  Git  out  an'  stay  out ! "  said  Healy,  refusing  to 
argue. 

And  Speckles  got  out. 

For  a  day  he  kept  away  from  the  roundhouse,  the 
length  of  time  past  experience  had  taught  him  was 
required  to  cool  the  turner's  anger;  then  he  sauntered 
down  again  and  came  face  to  face  with  Healy  on  the 
turntable. 

"  I  came  down  to  ask  you  to  put  me  on  again,  Mr. 
Healy,"  he  began,  broaching  the  subject  timidly. 

"  Phwat?  "  demanded  Healy. 

"  I  came  down  to  ask  you  to  put  me  on  again,  Mr. 
Healy,"  Speckles  repeated  monotonously. 

"  Oh,  I  heard  you — I  heard  you,"  said  Healy,  a 
little  inconsistently.  "  On  ag'in,  is  ut  ?  Ut'll  be  a 
long  toime,  me  son,  mark  that !  " 

This  being  quite  different  from  Healy's  accustomed, 


310     ON   THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

r<  Well,  git  back  to  yer  job/'  it  began  to  filter  vaguely 
through  Speckles'  brain  that  his  name  was  no  longer 
to  adorn  the  company's  pay-sheets. 

"  Am  I  fired  for  good,  Mr.  Healy  ?  "  he  faltered. 

"You  are!"  said  Healy.  "Just  that!"  Then, 
relenting  a  little  as  Speckles'  face  fell:  "If  'twere  not 
fer  the  big-bugs  down  yonder  "  — he  jerked  his  thumb 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  East — "  I  might- — 
moind,  I  don't  say  I  would,  but  I  might — put  you  on 
ag'in.  As  ut  is,  we've  instructions  to  cut  down  the 
operatin'  expinses,  an'  there's  an  ind  on  ut! " 

Speckles  stood  for  a  moment  in  dismay  as  Healy 
went  back  into  the  roundhouse;  then  he  turned  dis- 
consolately away,  crossed  the  tracks  to  the  platform 
of  the  station,  and,  seeking  out  a  secluded  corner  of 
the  freight-house,  sat  down  upon  a  packing-case  to 
think  it  out. 

To  Speckles  it  was  no  mere  matter  of  cutting  down 
expenses.  It  was  a  blasted  career ! 

Whatever  Speckles'  faults,  and  he  was  only  a  lad, 
he  had  one  redeeming  quality,  before  which,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  business  he  had  elected  to  follow,  his 
strayings  from  the  straight  and  narrow  path  dwindled 
into  insignificance — railroading  was  born  in  him. 

At  ten  he  had  started  in  as  caller  for  the  night-crews, 
and,  during  the  five  years  the  company  had  had  the 
benefit  of  his  valuable  services  in  that  capacity,  there 
was  not  a  man  on  the  division  but  sooner  or  later  came 
to  know  long-armed,  bony,  freckled-faced,  red-haired 
Speckles — came  to  know  the  little  rascal,  and  like  him, 
too. 


SPECKLES  311 

Then  Speckles  had  been  promoted  to  the  post  of 
sweeper  in  the  roundhouse,  and  occasionally,  under 
Healy's  critical  inspection,  to  washing  out  boiler- 
tubes.  Fresh  fuel  thereby  added  to  the  fire  of  his 
ambition,  he  began  to  figure  how  long  it  would  be 
before  he  got  to  wiping,  then  to  firing,  and  after  that 
— even  Speckles'  boundless  optimism  did  not  have  the 
temerity  to  specify  any  particular  date — the  time 
when  he  would  attain  his  goal  and  get  his  engine. 

Now,  instead,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  found  him- 
self seated  on  a  cracker-box,  his  dreams  for  the  future 
rudely  shattered — thanks  to  Healy,  old  Sour  Face 
Healy! 

So  Speckles  sighed,  and  as  he  sighed  the  shop 
whistle  blew.  It  was  noon,  and  the  men  began  to 
pour  out  of  the  big  gates.  Then  Speckles,  remem- 
bering that  the  schools  were  also  "  letting  out,"  hur- 
ried down  the  platform  and  up  the  main  street.  He 
would  confide  in  Madge.  Madge  would  under- 
stand. 

Madge  Bolton  was  the  daughter  of  the  ticket  agent 
at  the  station,  and  between  Mr.  Bolton  and  Speckles 
there  existed  a  standing  feud,  the  casus  belli  being 
fifteen-year-old,  blue-eyed  Madge.  Speckles  kicked 
his  heels  on  the  corner  until  she  appeared;  then  he 
turned  and  fell  into  step  beside  her,  reaching  a  little 
awkwardly  for  her  strap  of  books. 

"  Hallo,  Dol ! "  was  Madge's  greeting.  She  was 
the  only  person  in  Big  Cloud  who  did  not  call  him 
Speckles. 

"Hallo,  Madge!"  he  returned. 


312      ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Madge  glanced  at  his  face  and  hands.  "  Haven't 
you  been  to  work?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nope." 

"Why,  Dol?" 

"  Fired,"  said  Speckles  laconically. 

"Oh,  Dol,  again!"  she  cried  reproachfully. 
"What  for?" 

"'Tain't  only  the  third  time,  and  'twasn't  for 
nothinY'  said  Speckles,  a  bit  sullenly.  "  I  was  only 
restin'." 

"  Dolivar  Babson,"  she  accused,  "  you  were  loaf- 
ing. Oh,  Dol,  you'll  never  get  to  firing,  and — and — " 
She  hesitated  and  stopped,  her  cheeks  a  little  red 
with  the  hint  of  boy-and-girl  castle-building  that 
would  have  increased  her  father's  ire  against  the  luck- 
less Speckles  had  he  seen  it. 

Speckles,  somewhat  shamefaced,  and  having  no 
excuse  to  offer,  trudged  on  in  silence. 

"  Did  you  ask  Mr.  Healy  to  take  you  back  ?  "  she 
inquired,  after  a  moment. 

"  He  won't,"  said  Speckles. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Dol?  " 

"I  dunno." 

"  Well,"  said  Madge,  hopefully,  "  perhaps  you 
could  get  a  job  in  one  of  the  stores.  I'll  ask  Mr. 
Timmons,  the  grocer,  if  you  like.  I  know  him  pretty 
well." 

Speckles  came  to  an  abrupt  and  sudden  halt,  cast 
in  Madge's  face  one  look  that  carried  with  it  a  world 
of  unutterable  reproach,  handed  over  her  books  in 
silence — and  fled. 


SPECKLES  313 

He,  a  railroad  man,  go  into  a  store!  And  this 
from  Madge !  Madge,  who,  of  all  others — it  was  too 
much!  Speckles  ate  his  dinner,  dispirited  and 
crushed.  Everything  and  everybody  was  against 
him. 

His  mother's  curt  inquiry  as  to  when  he  was  going 
back  to  work  did  not  in  any  way  tend  to  mitigate  his 
troubles — rather,  on  the  contrary,  to  accentuate 
them. 

"  Old  Sour  Face  won't  put  me  back,"  he  jerked  out, 
in  response  to  his  mother's  repeated  question. 

"  No  wonder  he  won't,"  said  his  mother  sharply, 
"  if  you're  as  disrespectful  as  that.  I'm  ashamed  of 
you,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

Speckles  was  too  much  depressed  to  offer  any 
defense.  He  finished  his  meal  in  silence,  gulped  down 
his  cup  of  tea  in  two  swallows,  took  his  hat,  and 
started  out. 

Unconsciously  he  directed  his  steps  toward  the 
yards,  and,  some  five  minutes  later,  arrived  at  the 
station.  Here,  about  half-way  down  the  platform,  he 
spotted  Mat  Bolton  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  ticket 
office. 

As  he  approached,  the  nonchalant  air  with  which 
the  other  leaned  with  folded  arms  against  the  jamb 
of  the  door  aroused  Speckles'  suspicions.  To  reach 
the  seat  of  his  meditations — the  cracker-box  in  the 
freight  shed  which  had  now  become  his  objective 
point — he  would  be  obliged  to  pass  Mr.  Bolton.  He 
therefore  began  to  incline  his  course  toward  the  edge 
of  the  platform  nearest  the  rails,  so  that,  when  he 


314     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

came  opposite  the  office  door,  some  fifteen  feet  were 
between  him  and  his  arch  enemy. 

Mr.  Bolton  awoke  from  his  lethargy  with  surprising 
suddenness. 

'  You  young  rascal/'  he  shouted,  "  what  you  been 
doing  to  my  girl?  I'll  teach  you  to  make  girls  cry, 
you  little  speckled- face  runt,  you !  " 

He  made  a  dash  for  Speckles,  but  by  the  time  he  had 
recovered  his  balance  and  saved  himself  from  toppling 
over  the  edge  of  the  platform  to  the  tracks,  Speckles 
had  reached  the  safe  retreat  of  the  freight-shed  door. 
And  as  the  irate  parent,  after  shaking  his  fist  im- 
potently,  walked  back  and  disappeared  within  his 
domain,  Speckles  indulged  in  a  series  of  pantomimes 
in  which  his  fingers  and  his  nose  played  an  intimate 
and  comprehensive  part. 

Perched  once  more  on  the  cracker-box,  Speckles 
again  resolved  himself  into  a  committee  on  ways  and 
means.  His  little  skirmish  with  Madge's  father  had 
exhilarated  him  to  such  an  extent  that  his  heavy  and 
oppressing  sense  of  despondency  had  vanished,  and  in 
its  place  came  a  renewed  determination  to  resume, 
somehow  or  other,  the  railroad  career  that  Healy  had 
so  emphatically  interrupted. 

He  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  feasibility  of  apply- 
ing to  Regan,  the  master  mechanic,  for  a  job  in  the 
shops,  but  dismissed  the  idea  almost  immediately  on 
the  ground  that  shop  men  were  not,  strictly  speaking, 
railroaders. 

He  might  start  in  switching  and  braking,  and  work 
up  to  conductor.  That,  at  least,  was  railroading — not 


SPECKLES  315 

to  be  compared  with  engine-driving,  not  by  long 
odds,  but  still  it  was  railroading.  His  face  brigh- 
tened. He  would  interview  Farley,  the  train- 
master. 

Farley  was  in  his  office.  Speckles  had  not  very  far 
to  go,  only  a  few  steps  down  the  platform.  All  the 
offices — and  Big  Cloud  was  division  headquarters — 
were  under  the  same  roof. 

At  Speckles'  request,  Farley  swung  around  in  his 
swivel-chair  with  a  quizzical  expression  on  his  face. 
Then  he  grinned. 

"  Want  to  go  on  with  the  train-crews,  eh  ?  What 
do  you  think,  kid,  that  I'm  running  a  kindergarten 
outfit,  even  if  some  of  'em  do  act  like  it  ?  How  old  are 
you?" 

"  Sixteen,"  said  Speckles,  with  a  sinking  heart. 

"  Sixteen,  eh  ?  Well,  come  back  in  a  couple  of 
years,  and " 

But,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  Speckles  fled. 
He  was  in  no  mood  to  stand  much  chaffing,  and  Far- 
ley, as  he  well  knew,  had  a  leaning  that  way.  Speckles 
halted  outside  the  door,  undecided  what  move  to  make 
next,  when  the  clicking  of  the  instruments  in  the  dis- 
patcher's room  overhead  came  to  his  ears  like  an  in- 
spiration. 

Why  hadn't  he  thought  of  that  before?  Spence, 
who  had  been  on  the  night  trick  most  of  the  years 
that  Speckles  was  caller,  was  now  chief  dispatcher. 
If  he  had  any  friend  anywhere,  it  was  Spence,  the 
man  at  whose  elbow  he  had  sat  through  those  long, 
dark  hours  of  the  night  that  beget  confidences,  and 


3i6     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

into  whose  ears  he  had  so  often  poured  the  tales  of 
his  cherished  aims  and  ambitions. 

Speckles  covered  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  in 
his  new-found  exuberance.  Spence  looked  up  from 
his  key  and  listened  as  Speckles  told  his  story. 

"  So  you're  Healy's  contribution  to  economy,  eh  ?  " 
he  said  when  Speckles  had  finished.  "  And  he  won't 
take  you  back  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Speckles. 

"  Well,  that's  pretty  rough.  But  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  help  you  any,  Speckles.  I  haven't  any  rights  over 
Healy,  you  know." 

Speckles  hesitated  a  moment  and  fidgeted  nerv- 
ously from  one  foot  to  the  other.  "  I  know  you 
ain't,"  he  began,  "  but  I  thought  maybe  you'd  put  me 
on  here." 

"W-what!"  ejaculated  Spence.  Then,  smothering 
a  laugh  at  the  sight  of  Speckles'  woebegone  counte- 
nance, he  demanded  gravely  "  You  mean  dispatch- 
ing?" 

Speckles  nodded. 

"  No,  no,  Speckles,  that  would  never  do.  You  go 
back  and  see  Healy.  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you  with 
him." 

"  'Twon't  do  no  good,"  said  Speckles  hopelessly. 
"  I've  asked  him  twice  already." 

"  Well,  ask  him  again.  Look  here,  Speckles,  it's 
up  to  you  to  square  yourself  with  Healy,  somehow 
or  other.  If  you  want  your  job  very  badly,  you  ought 
to  be  sharp  enough  to  find  a  way  of  getting  it.  Go  on, 


now." 


SPECKLES  317 

So  Speckles  descended  the  stairs  to  the  platform 
and  irresolutely  began  to  cross  the  tracks  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  running-shed.  He  reached  the  roundhouse 
and  skirmished  cautiously  along  its  front.  No  Healy 
was  in  sight,  so  he  dived  in  between  two  engines  and 
made  his  way  to  the  rear  of  the  shed.  Here,  by  peer- 
ing around  the  end  of  a  tender,  he  could  see  Healy's 
cubby-hole — Healy  called  it  an  office — a  bit  of  space 
about  four  by  six  partitioned  off  from  the  back  wall  in 
the  corner,  with  a  greasy  book  the  engine-crews  signed, 
and  two  or  three  others,  equally  greasy,  in  which  Healy 
kept  tabs  on  things  in  general. 

In  spite  of  his  trepidation,  Speckles  grinned.  Healy 
was  there,  bending  over  a  very  flimsy,  spindle-legged 
table  that  he  had  wheedled  out  of  the  claim-agent 
some  months  before.  His  brows  were  puckered  into  a 
ferocious  scowl,  and  he  growled  and  muttered  to  him- 
self, now  laboring  furiously  with  a  stubby  pencil  on 
the  sheets  of  paper  in  front  of  him,  now  pausing  to 
bite  that  unoffending  article  almost  in  two  in  his 
desperation. 

Healy  was  working  on  his  invention.  All  the  divi- 
sion knew  about  Healy's  ideas  on  Westinghouse  and 
"  air,"  and  that  these  ideas,  when  perfected,  were  to 
be  patented.  As  to  what  the  consensus  of  opinion  of 
their  value  was  is  neither  here  nor  there,  except  that 
in  Healy's  presence,  when  referred  to  at  all,  the  sub- 
ject was  treated  with  dignity  and  respect,  for  Healy's 
physkal  powers  were  beyond  the  ordinary,  and  dearest 
to  Healy's  heart  and  most  sacred  in  his  eyes  was  this 


3i8      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

creation  of  his  brain,  or,  to  be  more  accurate, 
fancy. 

Speckles  sidled  up  to  the  cubby-hole,  and,  without 
any  peroration,  took  the  plunge. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  to  put  me  on  again,  Mr.  Healy," 
— he  spoke  rapidly,  as  though  he  feared  his  courage 
might  ooze  out  before  he  could  finish. 

Healy  wheeled  round  with  a  grunt. 

"  Oh,  ut's  you,  is  ut?  "  he  demanded  grimly. 

Speckles,  ready  to  run  at  the  first  sign  of  violence, 
acknowledged  the  impeachment  by  nodding  his  head 
affirmatively,  and  smiled  sheepishly  while  Healy  scru- 
tinized him  with  a  long  stare  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Well/'  said  Healy,  "  you  wait  a  minute  an'  I'll 
give  you  me  answer." 

Speckles'  heart  bounded  in  joyous  hope.  Healy 
very  deliberately  gathered  up  his  papers,  folded  them 
carefully,  and  opening  the  cupboard  where  his  coat 
hung — it  was  a  hot  day,  and  Healy  was  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves— tucked  them  into  the  inside  pocket.  Then, 
like  a  flash,  he  turned  and  reached  for  the  first  thing 
in  sight.  It  was  a  broom. 

But,  quick  as  he  was,  Speckles  was  quicker,  and 
he  led  Healy  by  the  length  of  the  pit  as  he  dodged 
around  the  tail  end  of  a  tender  and  darted  out  of  the 
running-shed  across  the  tracks  to  the  freight- 
house. 

Healy  followed  no  farther  than  the  turntable. 
There  he  halted,  and  Speckles,  from  his  retreat,  saw 
him  shake  his  fist  and  listened  to  the  threat  that  thun- 
dered across  the  yards: 


SPECKLES  319 

"  Show  yer  face  around  here  ag'in,  you  young 
rascal,  an'  I'll  bate  the  loife  out  av  you,  so  I  will !  " 

Speckles  betook  himself  to  the  cracker-box;  and 
from  his  lips  there  flowed  a  fluent  and  unrestrained 
expression  of  his  opinion  on  things  in  general,  but 
more  particularly  of  Healy,  and  more  particularly 
still  of  Healy's  invention.  Then,  his  indignation  sub- 
siding, it  was  followed  by  a  fit  of  the  blues;  so  that 
when,  at  the  expiration  of  half  an  hour,  Healy,  still 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  came  out  of  the  roundhouse  and 
walked  up  the  tracks  in  the  direction  of  the  shops, 
Speckles,  through  the  freight-house  door,  remarked 
the  incident  in  complete  apathy  and  as  one  in  which 
he  had  no  interest  whatever. 

Ten  minutes  later,  however,  his  apathy  vanished 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  at  the  sound  of  the  excited 
shouts  of  the  men  in  the  running-shed.  Some  were 
hastily  swinging  the  big  engine  doors  wide  open, 
others  were  setting  the  table  in  position,  while  one 
started  on  a  run  in  the  direction  Healy  had  taken. 

Another  minute  and  the  shop  whistle  had  boomed 
out  its  warning,  and  as  Healy,  with  the  man  who  had 
gone  after  him,  came  tearing  down  the  track  like  mad, 
Speckles  saw  the  smoke  beginning  to  curl  up  over  the 
roof  at  the  back.  The  running-shed  was  afire. 

With  a  whoop,  Speckles  traversed  the  platform, 
leaped  to  the  rails,  and  was  hard  on  Healy's  heels 
by  the  time  the  turntable  was  crossed.  Healy  paused 
but  an  instant.  The  thing  to  do  was  to  get  the  engines 
out,  and  Healy  was  the  man  to  do  it. 

"  Get  tackle  rigged  on  463,"  he  ordered.     "  She's 


320     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

cold,  an'  we'll  have  to  haul  her  out.  Set  the  table  fer 
518;  I'll  take  her." 

Then  he  started  on  the  jump  for  the  cubby-hole 
and  his  precious  papers. 

Now,  the  tackle  that  Healy  had  referred  to  was 
stored  in  the  rear  of  the  roundhouse  in  the  same  gen- 
eral direction  as  the  cubby-hole,  and  as  the  order  had 
been  given  to  no  one  in  particular,  Speckles,  shouting 
"  I'll  get  it,"  started  after  Healy. 

Some  grease  and  waste  had  caught  and  was  rolling 
up  a  nasty  smoke.  Through  it,  even  while  he  tugged 
manfully  at  the  heavy  tackle,  Speckles  saw  Healy  run 
into  his  office,  snatch  his  coat,  rush  out  again,  and 
dash  for  the  cab  of  518,  throwing  the  coat  up  on  the 
tender.  As  he  did  so,  something  fell  from  the  pocket. 

Speckles  dropped  the  tackle  and  pounced  upon  it. 
It  was  the  bundle  of  papers  he  had  seen  Healy  put  in 
his  coat-pocket  a  little  while  before. 

It  was  Healy's  invention! 

Speckles'  first  impulse  was  to  shout  to  Healy,  but 
just  then  518  glided  out  of  the  shed,  and  the  men  in 
front  of  463  were  yelling  in  chorus  for  the  tackle, 
so  Speckles  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  the  papers 
in  his  pocket. 

It  wasn't  much  of  a  blaze,  but  it  looked  bad  while 
it  lasted.  Even  after  the  shop-hands  had  got  their 
hose-lengths  connected  and  a  stream  playing  on  the 
fire,  and  the  engines  were  all  in  safety  in  the  yard, 
the  smoke  continued  to  roll  out  in  clouds,  with  here 
and  there  a  vicious  tongue  of  flame. 

Then  Healy,  his  duty  done,  bethought  him  of  his 


SPECKLES  321 

coat  on  the  tender  of  518.  And  Speckles,  as  he  heard 
Healy' s  gasp  of  dismay  on  discovering  that  his  papers 
were  gone,  had  an  inspiration. 

"  Me  papers !  Me  papers !  "  wailed  Healy.  "  Per 
the  love  av  Mike,  I  must  av  dropped  thim  on  the 
flure!" 

"  I'll  get  them  for  you,  Mr.  Healy,"  said  Speckles, 
quick  as  a  shot. 

"You'll  not!"  said  Healy.  "I'll  have  no  wan 
risk  his  life  fer  thim,  bad  as  I  want  thim.  Hey,  come 
back,  you  runt !  " 

But  Speckles  was  gone.  Headed  straight  for  the 
big,  yawning  doors  that  vomited  their  smoke  and 
flames?  Oh,  no,  not  Speckles!  Hardly!  Speckles 
would  make  his  attempt  from  the  rear!  And  around 
the  end  of  the  shed  and  in  behind  he  raced. 

Some  of  the  men  were  fighting  the  fire  from  that 
side,  but  they  were  too  busy  to  pay  any  attention  to 
Speckles.  A  dab  of  soot  and  dirt  on  his  face  which 
he  obtained  by  rubbing  his  fingers  along  the  blackened 
wall,  an  artistic  smudge  of  generous  proportions  on 
the  outside  of  the  papers,  which  he  took  from  his 
pocket,  and  Speckles'  make-up  was  complete  and  con- 
vincing. 

Now,  Speckles  had  an  eye  for  the  dramatic  and  an 
appreciation  of  its  value.  He  peered  in  through  one 
of  the  windows.  It  was  not  nearly  as  bad  inside  as  it 
had  been,  and  he  decided  there  would  be  no  risk  and 
very  little  discomfort  in  carrying  out  the  plan  that  had 
popped  into  his  head. 

So  he  climbed  in  through  a  window  and  dropped 


322     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD] 

down  to  the  floor  on  the  other  side.  The  next  minute 
he  had  dashed  through  the  running-shed,  and  emerged 
from  a  whirl  of  black  smoke  into  the  open  in  front 
of  the  turntable,  the  papers  waved  aloft  in  his  fist. 

It  was  effective — decidedly  effective!  A  cheer 
went  up,  and  the  men  crowded  around,  while  Healy 
rushed  forward  and  began  to  pump  Speckles'  arm  up 
and  down  like  an  engine-piston. 

"Ut's  a  hero  you  are,  me  bright  jool  av  a  lad!  " 
he  cried  in  his  delight.  "  'Tis  mesilf,  John  Healy,  that 
ses  ut,  an*  the  bhoys  are  me  witness.  Come  back  to 
yer  job  in  the  mornin'  an',  by  my  sowl,  Speckles,  I'll 
niver  fire  you  ag'in,  niver !  An'  ut's  more  I'll  do — I'll 
promote  you.  Ut's  a  wiper  you  are  from  now  on,  me 
son,  an'  to  blazes  wid  cuttin'  down  operatin'  expinses ! 
Where  did  you  f  oind  the  papers  ?  " 

"On  the  floor,"  said  Speckles — -and  he  told  the 
truth. 


XV 

MUNFORD 

MUNFORD  came  to  the  work  before  the  gangs  were 
deep  enough  into  the  hills  to  lose  daily,  or  rather 
nightly,  touch  with  Big  Cloud.  And  the  way  of  his 
coming  was  this :  The  town,  springing  up  in  a  night, 
had  its  beginning  in  the  wooden  shanty  the  engineers 
built  as  headquarters  for  the  Hill  Division  that  was 
to  be.  Then,  with  mushroom  growth,  came  shacks 
innumerable;  and  these  shacks,  for  the  most  part, 
were  gambling  hells  and  dives  and  saloons,  and  the 
population  was  Indian,  Chinese  and  bad  American. 
To  these  places  of  lurid  entertainment  flocked  the 
toilers  at  night,  loading  down  the  construction 
empties  as  they  backed  their  way  to  the  spurs  and 
sidings  that  soon  spread  out  like  a  cobweb  around 
headquarters. 

Naturally,  rows  were  of  pretty  frequent  occurrence 
between  the  company's  men  and  the  leeches  who  bleed 
them  with  crooked  games  and  stacked  decks  over  the 
roulette,  faro  and  stud-poker  tables.  But  of  them  all 
in  the  delectable  pursuit  of  separating  the  men  and 
their  pay-checks,  Pete  McGonigle's  "  Golden  Luck  " 
saloon  was  in  the  van,  both  as  to  size  and  crookedness. 
And  that  high  station  of  eminence  it  maintained  until 
the  night  a  stranger  wrecked  it  by  no  more  delicate  a 

3*3 


'324     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

method  than  that  of  kicking  over  the  roulette  table, 
sending  it  and  the  attendant,  who  was  presiding  over 
the  little  whirling  ball  in  Pete's  interest,  crashing  to 
the  floor.  That  stranger  was  Munford.  And  that 
was  how  Munford  came  to  join  the  army  of  the 
Rockies. 

A  number  of  the  company  men  were  present  and 
they  sided  in  with  Munford.  Before  this  amalgama- 
tion, Pete  and  his  hangers-on  went  down  to  ignomini- 
ous defeat,  and  the  "  Golden  Luck,"  to  utter  demolish- 
ment  and  ruin.  News  of  the  fracas  spread  rapidly  to 
the  other  "  joints."  The  dive-keepers  joined  forces, 
the  company  men  did  likewise,  and  that  night  became 
the  wildest  in  the  history  of  Big  Cloud. 

Munford  took  command  of  his  new-found  friends 
from  the  start.  In  the  street  fight  that  followed  he 
did  wondrous  things — and  did  them  with  zest,  delight 
and  effectiveness.  With  his  great  bulk  he  towered 
above  his  companions,  and  the  sweep  of  his  long  arms 
as  they  rose  and  fell,  the  play  of  his  massive  shoulders 
as  he  lunged  forward  to  give  impetus  to  his  blows, 
was  a  marvelous  sight  to  see.  But  the  details  of  that 
fight  have  no  place  here.  Its  result,  however,  was 
that  Munford,  previously  unknown  and  unheard  of, 
became  thereafter,  a  marked  man  in  Big  Cloud. 

When  the  fight  was  over  the  company  men,  elated 
with  victory  though  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear, 
retired  to  the  yard  to  wait  for  the  construction  trains 
to  take  them  up  to  their  work.  And  while  they 
waited  they  spent  the  time  gazing  in  admiration  at 
Munford  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  flat-car,  his  legs 


MUNFORD  325 

dangling  over,  blowing  softly  on  his  knuckles,  a  smile 
of  divine  contentment  on  his  face. 

What  was  Munford  going  to  do?  demanded  Mc- 
Guire  and  the  cronies  of  his  particular  gang  who  had 
had  the  honor  of  being  present  at  Pete's  when  the 
evening's  proceedings  were  instituted,  and  who  there- 
fore felt  they  had  a  prior  claim  to  the  hero's  considera- 
tion over  and  above  that  of  the  men  from  other  sec- 
tions of  the  work  who  had  taken  part  in  the  fight. 
Munford  did  not  know.  Would  he  go  up  the  line 
with  them  and  take  a  job  with  their  gang  if  they 
promised  to  get  him  one?  Munford  would.  So  he 
kept  his  seat  when  the  construction  train  pulled  out 
just  as  the  dawn  was  breaking,  and  twenty  miles  up 
the  road  at  Twin  Bear  Creek  they  tumbled  him  off 
and  introduced  him  to  Alan  Burton,  foreman  of 
Bridge  Gang  No.  3. 

At  the  sight  of  his  battered  and  jaded  crew,  who  in 
no  wise  appeared  fit  for  the  day's  work  before  them, 
Durton  swore  savagely  and  with  great  bitterness  of 
tongue  bade  them  get  to  their  work.  Then  he  turned 
in  his  ill-humor  to  Munford,  who  was  still  standing 
beside  him. 

"  Who  the  devil  are  you  ?  What  you  doin'  here  ? 
Where  d'ye  come  from?" 

The  questions  came  quick  and  sharp  like  a  volley 
of  small  arms. 

Munford  eyed  the  wiry  little  chunk  of  a  man, 
scarcely  up  to  his  own  shoulders,  in  silence,  taking 
him  in  from  head  to  foot. 

"Well,"  snapped  Burton,  "speak  up!" 


326     ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  Munford's  my  name,"  said  Munford,  coolly. 
"  I'm  here  for  a  job.  Where  I  come  from  ain't  none 
of  your  blamed  business,  is  it?  " 

"Ain't  it?"  said  Burton.  "Well,  then,  you  can 
walk  back  there,  my  bucko ! "  and  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  followed  the  men  to  their  work. 

Munford  sat  down  on  the  doorsill  of  the  camp 
shanty  and  with  a  laugh  pulled  out  his  pipe  and  be- 
gan to  smoke.  He  was  still  sitting  there  a  half-hour 
later  when  the  foreman  came  back. 

"  If  you've  got  far  to  go,"  grinned  Burton,  you'd 
better  get  started." 

"  No  hurry,"  replied  Munford,  imperturbably. 

"  You're  a  queer  card,"  said  Burton,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "  What's  this  about  the  trouble  down  at  Big 
Cloud  last  night  the  boys  are  so  full  of  they  can't  do 
anything  besides  talk?  " 

Munford  chuckled  quietly.  "  Nothin'  much," 
said  he. 

"  Nothing  much,  eh  ?  They  say  you  put  the 
"  Golden  Luck  and  Pete  McGonigle  to  the  bad,  and 
then  cleaned  out  every  dive  in  town.  You're  quite  a 
reformer,  ain't  you  ?  I'll  tell  you  this,  though,  it  won't 
be  healthy  for  you  around  these  parts  from  now  on." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Munford.  "  Say,  how 
about  that  job?" 

Burton  laughed.  "  You've  got  a  sweet  nerve  to 
ask  for  a  job,  and  you  responsible  for  a  gang  that 
won't  be  able  to  do  a  day's  work  among  the  lot  of 
them  between  now  and  night.  Did  up  McGonigle's, 
eh?  Well,  I  don't  know,  I  reckon  in  the  long  run 


MUNFORD  327 

that'll  be  worth  more  to  the  company  than  the  day's 
work.  All  right,  sport,  you  can  go  to  work — until 
Pete  and  his  crowd  scare  you  out,  which  I  predict 
won't  be  long.  And  while  you're  here,  if  you  get 
itchy  for  trouble  don't  look  for  it  among  the  men, 
come  to  me." 

"  Well,  I'll—"  gasped  Munford.  "  Why,  I  could 
twist  you  like — "  Then  he  laughed  in  pure  delight  at 
Burton's  spunk  "  Oh,  sure !  Sure,  I  will." 

It  took  Munford  no  longer  than  a  day  to  get  the 
hang  of  the  work.  He  was  already  more  than  a  demi- 
god in  the  eyes  of  Bridge  Gang  No.  3,  and  that  counted 
for  much.  They  were  eager  and  ready  to  show  him 
what  they  knew  themselves,  whereas  the  ignorance 
and  rawness  of  any  other  newcomer  would  have  been 
turned  to  good  account  in  the  shape  of  gibes  and  jests 
at  his  expense.  In  two  days,  from  a  natural  adapt- 
ability coupled  with  his  great  strength,  that  was  the 
strength  of  two  men,  Munford  had  fitted  into  place 
with  the  same  nicety  that  one  part  of  a  well  designed 
machine  fits  into  another. 

To  the  crews  of  the  construction  trains  bringing  up 
the  bridge  material  he  was  pointed  out  with  pride  by 
his  mates — though,  indeed,  that  action  was  superfluous 
— as  "  the  boy  who  did  the  trick  at  Pete's."  And  from 
these  in  turn  Munford  learned  that  down  at  Big 
Cloud,  Pete  and  others  of  his  ilk  had  sworn  that, 
sooner  or  later,  they  would  fix  him  for  it.  At  this  he 
only  laughed  and,  doubling  his  great  arm  bared  to  the 
shoulders,  intimated  that  there  could  be  no  greater 
pleasure  in  life  for  him  than  to  have  them  try  it.  And 


328      ON    THE   IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD. 

that  night  sitting  outside  the  camp  after  supper,  Mc- 
Guire-,  as  spokesman,  alluding  to  the  threat,  proposed 
that  under  Munford's  leadership  they  should  make 
another  raid  on  Big  Cloud. 

Burton,  passing  by,  caught  the  gist  of  the  conversa- 
tion. "  I  want  to  see  you  a  minute,  Munford,"  he 
called,  shortly. 

Munford  got  up  and  followed  to  the  foreman's  little 
shanty  that  stood  a  few  yards  away  from  the  main 
camp.  Once  inside,  Burton  shoved  him  into  a  chair 
and  shook  his  fist  under  Munford's  nose. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  yesterday  morning,"  he  splut- 
tered angrily,  "  that  if  you  were  looking  for  trouble 
to  come  to  me  and  leave  the  gang  alone?  And  here 
you're  at  it  again,  what?  Go  down  to  Big  Cloud  and 
raise  hell,  eh?  You  great,  big  overgrown  calf!" 

Munford  blinked  at  the  foreman,  speechless.  It 
was  a  long  time  since  he  had  taken  words  like  these 
from  any  man,  much  less  a  little  spitfire  like  Burton. 

"  Trouble ! "  continued  the  irate  Burton,  hardly 
pausing  for  breath.  "  You  live  on  it,  don't  you  ?  Eat 
it,  eh?  Well,  you'll  get  a  fill  of  it  before  long  that'll 
give  you  the  damnest  indigestion  you  ever  heard  of. 
I  promise  you  that !  But  you  keep  your  hands  off  my 
crew!  Now  you  listen  to  what  I'm  saying!  " 

"Aw,  go  hang!"  said  Munford,  contemptu- 
ously. "  I  can't  help  it,  can  I,  if  they  want  to  go  down 
to  Big  Cloud?  If  you're  so  blamed  anxious  about 
them,  it's  a  wonder  you  don't  go  around  every  night 
and  tuck  'em  into  their  bunks !  " 

For  a  moment  Burton  looked  as  though  he  were 


MUNFORD  329 

going  to  jump  into  Munford  and  mix  it  then  and 
there;  but  instead,  with  a  short  laugh,  he  turned  and 
walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  his  bunk  and  pulled  out  his  pipe.  He  cut  some 
tobacco  from  his  plug,  rolled  it  between  his  palms, 
packed  his  pipe  slowly  and  lighted  it.  It  was  five 
minutes  before  he  broke  the  silence;  Munford  was 
beginning  to  feel  uncomfortable. 

"  I  don't  suppose  throwing  a  few  timbers  across 
Twin  Bear  Creek  means  much  of  anything  to  you, 
Munford,  eh?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  Not  so  much,"  replied  Munford  carelessly,  a  little 
puzzled  at  the  question. 

"  No  ?  Well,  it  means  a  lot  to  me,  a  whole  lot ! 
Until  that  trestle  is  up,  we  can't  shove  material  over 
to  the  other  side,  ties  and  rails  and  heavy  stuff. 
Progress  on  the  Hill  Division  depends  just  at  this 
minute  on  Bridge  Gang  No.  3,  and  concretely  on  me. 
I  don't  propose  to  have  it  interfered  with  by  the  men 
going  down  to  Big  Cloud  and  getting  their  heads 
broke,  understand?" 

"  Oh,  I  guess  we  can  take  care  of  our  heads,  if 
that's  all  that  bothers  you,"  drawled  Munford.  "  And 
I  furthermore  guess  your  bloomin'  little  bridge  you 
seem  so  stuck  on  won't  take  any  hurt  by  lettin'  the 
boys  have  their  fling.  Anyway,  whether  it  will  or 
not,  what's  the  use  of  you  shootin'  off  all  your  talk? 
You  can't  stop  'em!  If  they  want  to  go,  they'll  go. 
And  say,  Burton  " — an  inspiration  coming  to  Mun- 
ford— "  come  on  down  with  us.  I'll  promise  you  the 
time  of  your  life." 


330     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  I  ought  to  have  put  it  up  to  you  differently,  I 
guess,  and  saved  my  breath,"  said  Burton  in  disgust. 
''  You're  just  a  hulk  of  bone  and  muscle  and  your 
head's  wood.  You  can  lift  a  timber  and  swing  a  pick 
or  axe  because  you've  got  the  strength.  But  that's 
all  you  know,  or  all  you're  good  for !  " 

The  cool  contempt  in  Burton's  voice  stung  Mun- 
ford  more  than  the  words  themselves. 

"  Is  that  so !  "  he  snarled,  resorting  to  his  favorite 
habit  of  blowing  on  his  knuckles.  "  I'd  show  you 
fast  enough  what  I'm  good  for,  you  runt,  if  you  was  a 
little  bigger!'' 

"  Maybe  you'll  find  I'm  big  enough  one  of  these 
days,"  said  Burton,  sharply.  "  Now  I'll  put  it  to 
you  straight  so  that  you'll  understand.  I'll  show  you 
whether  I  can  stop  the  gang  going  to  Big  Cloud  or 
not.  No  man  rides  on  the  construction  trains  after 
to-day  without  a  pass  signed  by  me.  That's  orders! 
If  the  men  don't  like  it,  you  can  tell  them  it's  your 
fault.  The  next  row  in  Big  Cloud  wouldn't  stop  at 
fists.  And  as  for  you,  you  wouldn't  come  out  of  it 
alive." 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  me,"  sneered  Munford. 
"  I'm- 

"  You're  a  fool !  The  thickest-headed,  trouble- 
hunting  fool  it's  ever  been  my  cursed  luck  to  run 
against !  "  exclaimed  Burton  angrily. 

Munford  brushed  his  great  shock  of  hair  out  of  his 
eyes  with  a  nervous  sweep  of  his  hand.  "  I  ain't  ever 
before  taken  the  back  talk  from  any  man  that  I've 
taken  from  you — without  hurtin'  him,"  he  said  thickly, 


MUNFORD  331 

rising  from  his  chair.  "  And  I'm  goin'  to  get  out  of 
here  before  I  hurt  you!"  He  walked  quickly  across 
the  shanty  and  swung  around  in  the  doorway.  "  By 
God,  I  wish  you  was  bigger !  "  he  flung  out. 

Munford  walked  back  to  the  men's  camp  and 
listened  to  their  conversation  awhile  in  sullen  silence. 
They  were  still  on  the  same  topic  and  were  waxing 
more  enthusiastic  each  minute. 

"  Aw,  dry  up !  "  said  Munford,  cutting  in  at  last. 
"  It'll  be  a  long  time  before  any  of  you  see  Big  Cloud 
again." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  demanded  McGuire,  aggressively. 

Munford  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
foreman's  shanty.  "  Him,"  he  said  laconically. 

"How's  he  goin'  to  stop  it?  What  for?  What's 
the  matter  with  him,  anyway?  It's  none  of  his  busi- 
ness !  "  the  men  were  talking  in  chorus. 

"  He's  fussy  about  gettin'  his  dinky  little  bridge 
through,"  sneered  Munford.  "  He  says  he  ain't  goin' 
to  have  broken  heads  interferin'  with  it,  either.  From 
now  on  you've  got  to  get  a  pass  to  ride  on  the  con- 
struction train.  Likewise,  he  said  if  you  didn't  like 
it  I  was  to  tell  you  " — here  Munford  paused  to  glance 
around  the  circle — "  that  it's  my  fault  and  I'm  the 
cause  of  all  the  trouble." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him?  "  demanded  the  crew. 

"  I  told  him  to  go  hang.  What  else  would  I 
tell  him?" 

"  Bully  for  you ! "  shouted  McGuire,  slapping  his 
leg  in  delight.  "  Did  he  fire  you?  " 

This  was  something  Munford  had  not  thought  of. 


332     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

"  Fire  me  ?  "  he  repeated.  Then  slowly,  pondering 
the  idea :  "  No,  he  didn't.  It's  funny  he  didn't, 
though;  I  gave  him  back  talk  enough." 

"  Aw,"  said  McGuire,  with  a  sneer,  "  that's  easy. 
He'd  have  fired  you  quick  enough  if  he  dared." 

"  Why,"  said  Munford  innocently.  "  I  wouldn't 
have  touched  him  if  he  had.  He's  too  small  to  touch 
—I  told  him  that,  too." 

"'Tain't  that,"  McGuire  returned.  "He  ain't 
afraid  of  any  man,  big  or  little.  I'll  give  him  credit 
for  that.  It's  his  bridge,  and  that  means  his  job, 
that  he's  afraid  of." 

"  What's  my  gettin'  fired  got  to  do  with  the 
bridge?"  demanded  Munford,  in  amazement. 

"Aw,  go  on;  you  know  what  I  mean.  If  Burton 
has  trouble  with  us  the  bridge  work  stops,  don't  it? 
And  the  company'll  be  askin'  Burton  the  reason  why, 
won't  they?  Well,  Burton  knows  there's  some  things 
we  won't  stand  for,  and  firm'  you  after  we  brought 
you  up  here  is  one  of  them.  And  that's  right,  too, 
eh,  mates  ?  " 

There  was  emphatic  assent  from  the  men. 

Munford,  a  little  flustered  at  this  wholesale  ex- 
hibition of  homage,  fidgeted  nervously.  "  Much 
obliged,"  said  he,  clumsily.  "  Don't  put  yourselves 
out  on  my  account.  I " 

"That's  all  right,"  broke  in  McGuire.  "Burton 
won't  try  it;  he  knows  better.  As  for  gettin'  a  pass 
to  get  out  of  camp,  I  dunno  about  that."  He  got  up, 
stretched  himself  and  yawned.  "  The  way  I  look  at 
it,  it's  more  up  to  Munford  here  than  it  is  to  Burton. 


MUNFORD  333 

I'm  goin'  to  turn  in,  but  I'll  say  first  that  the  night 
Munford  says  Big  Cloud,  then  Big  Cloud  it  is  for 
Bridge  Gang  No.  3.  That's  the  way  we  talked  it 
before  we  knew  about  Burton  mixin'  in,  and  I  reckon 
it  stands  just  the  same  now." 

And  the  camp  retired  to  their  bunks  and  to  sleep, 
voicing  McGuire's  sentiments  and  swearing  a  unan- 
imous and  enthusiastic  allegiance  to  Munford;  all 
but  Munford  himself  who  did  not  sleep  but  lay  awake 
tossing  restlessly  though,  withal,  in  a  very  self-satis- 
fied frame  of  mind. 

This  outburst  of  popularity  pleased  Munford  ex- 
ceedingly. The  more  so  that  it  was  directly  traceable 
to  his  great  strength  and  physical  courage  of  which  he 
was  inordinately  vain.  He  began  to  regard  Burton 
with  contempt.  Burton  was  a  man  whose  backbone 
wobbled  when  it  came  to  a  showdown !  As  Munford 
turned  the  situation  over  in  his  mind  his  contempt 
grew  stronger  until  he  came  to  decide  that  he  despised 
the  little  foreman  heartily.  Would  he,  he  demanded 
of  himself  with  a  snort,  have  fired  a  man  that  had 
talked  to  him  as  he  had  talked  to  Burton,  had  he  been 
in  Burton's  place?  He  would!  And  the  gang,  bridge, 
job  and  everything  else  could  go  to  blazes!  Munford 
sat  up  to  emphasize  his  feelings  on  this  point  with  a 
crash  of  his  fist  on  the  side  of  the  bunk.  He  thrilled 
with  the  fierce  joy  of  enacting  just  such  a  role  as  his 
imagination  depicted,  despising  Burton  accordingly 
for  lacking  in  what  were,  to  him,  the  essentials  of  a 
man.  He  decided,  as  he  fell  asleep,  to  make  the  fore- 
man's life  a  burden  to  him — and  he  did. 


334     ON   THE    IRON    AT  BIG   CLOUD. 

No  flagrant  violation  or  disobedience  of  orders  was 
there,  instead  the  inauguration  of  a  petty  little  system 
of  nagging  that  embraced  every  indignity  Munford 
could  think  of.  And  the  range  of  his  attack  was  from 
profound  and  exaggerated  attention  and  politeness  to 
the  utter  and  complete  ignoring  of  the  very  existence 
of  such  a  person  as  Alan  Burton,  foreman  of  Bridge 
Gang  No.  3.  While  the  gang,  taking  their  cue  from 
Munford,  would  shift  from  one  extreme  to  the  other 
with  a  precision  and  significance  that  cut  deeper  into 
a  man  of  Burton's  high-strung,  nervous  temperament 
than  any  other  form  of  torture  they  could  have 
devised. 

Three  times  during  three  days  Burton,  who  was 
afraid  of  no  man  or  aggregation  of  men,  took  the  bull 
by  the  horns  and  struck  Munford  a  violent  blow  in 
an  effort  to  bring  matters  to  a  head.  On  the  first 
occasion  the  gang  watched  the  action  with  a  gasp  of 
mixed  pity  and  admiration — looking  for  Burton's  in- 
stant annihilation.  But  Munford,  with  a  bit  of  a 
laugh,  only  reached  out  and  grasping  Burton's  neck 
held  him  wriggling,  helplessly,  impotently,  at  arm's 
length.  "  You  got  to  grow,  boy ;  just  keep  quiet  now, 
I  ain't  going  to  hurt  you,"  he  taunted.  And  the  gang 
promptly  lost  their  faint  appreciation  of  Burton's 
nerve  in  their  relish  of  the  ridiculous  figure  cut  by  the 
white-faced,  raging  foreman. 

It  was  dirty  work,  and  deep  down  in  his  heart  Mun- 
ford knew  it.  But  his  better  nature  no  sooner  mani- 
fested itself  by  sundry  pricks  of  conscience  than  it  was 
smothered  beneath  the  new  sense  of  authority  and 


MUNFORD  335 

command  that  was  now  his  for  the  first  time  in  his 
experience;  and  which,  catering  as  it  did  to  his  pea- 
cock vanity,  was  paramount  to  all  things  else.  The 
work  lagged  sadly  and  fell  behind.  The  daily  reports 
Burton  signed  and  sent  down  to  headquarters  be- 
came worse  and  worse. 

Each  day,  too,  the  feud  between  the  dives  at  Big 
Cloud  and  Bridge  Gang  No.  3,  fanned  by  the  crews  of 
the  construction  trains,  who  taunted  McGuire  and  the 
men  with  cowardice,  grew  stronger.  For  the  train- 
men, having  no  idea  of  disregarding  Burton's  orders 
and  allowing  the  bridge  men  to  ride  down  on  the 
empties,  rubbed  it  in  until  the  gang  writhed  under 
their  gibes. 

Munford  did  not  come  in  for  much  of  this  per- 
sonally. The  trainmen,  none  of  them,  seemed  to  dis- 
play any  particular  hankering  for  discussing  the  ques- 
tion in  his  presence;  but  he  got  it  second-hand  from 
McGuire  and  the  gang.  The  outcome  of  it  all  was  a 
decision  one  night  after  supper  to  board  the  construc- 
tion train  the  following  evening,  Burton,  the  train 
crew  and  the  company  to  the  contrary,  and  go  down  to 
Big  Cloud  if  they  had  to  run  the  train  themselves. 
Munford  concurred  in  the  decision  by  blowing  very 
gently  on  his  knuckles.  It  looked  bad  for  the  peace 
and  quiet  of  Big  Cloud;  and  it  looked  bad  for  Bur- 
ton's standing  with  the  company. 

Munford,  as  commander-in-chief,  and  McGuire,  as 
chief  of  staff,  withdrew  from  the  circle  and  strolled 
off  by  themselves  to  perfect  their  plans  for  the  next 
day's  campaign,  taking  the  trail  in  the  direction  of 


336     ON   THE   IRON   AT   BIG   CLOUD 

Big  Cloud — a  trail  still  called,  but  now  a  passable  road 
due  to  the  traffic  incident  to  the  building  of  the  Hill 
Division,  whose  right  of  way  it  paralleled  from  Big 
Cloud  to  the  ford  at  Twin  Bear  Creek.  At  the  end  of 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  two  men  sat  down  on  a  felled 
tree  by  the  side  of  the  trail  to  talk.  Some  ten  minutes 
had  passed  when  McGuire,  in  the  midst  of  a  graphic 
description  of  what  they  would  do  to  Pete  McGonigle 
and  the  rest,  suddenly  stopped  and  gripped  Munford 
tightly  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Keep  mum,"  he  cautioned.  "  There's  someone 
comin' ! " 

In  the  bright  moonlight  they  could  make  out  the 
figure  of  a  man  about  a  hundred  yards  down  the  road 
coming  toward  them  from  the  camp. 

"  He  walks  like  Burton,"  whispered  McGuire. 
:<  What  the  devil  is  he  f ollowin'  us  for  ?  Get  back  into 
the  trees  and  let  him  pass." 

They  moved  noiselessly  a  little  deeper  into  the  wood 
that  fringed  the  road,  and  lying  flat,  watched  the  man 
who  was  approaching. 

"  It's  Burton,"  McGuire  announced  at  last. 

Munford  grunted  assent. 

"  He's  been  followin'  us  all  right,  and  now  he's 
goin'  to  wait  for  us  to  come  back,"  continued  Mc- 
Guire, as  Burton  halted  within  a  few  yards  of  them 
and  sat  down  to  smoke.  "  Well,  we'll  give  him  a  run 
for  his  money.  He  can  wait  a  while,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed.  McGuire  began 
to  tire  of  his  self-selected  game  of  hide  and  seek. 


MUNFORD  337 

"  Come  on,"  said  he,  "  let's  go  out  and  see  what  he 
wants." 

"  Wait,"  Munford  answered.  "  There's  someone 
comin'  from  Big  Cloud  way.  It's  not  us  Burton's 
after.  Listen!" 

There  was  the  faint  beat  of  horse's  hoofs  gradually 
drawing  nearer.  Then  presently  rider  and  horse 
loomed  out  of  the  shadows  and  Burton,  getting  up, 
stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road. 

The  horseman  drew  up  beside  him.  "  That  you, 
Burton?"  he  called  softly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Burton,  shortly. 

"  You  got  Pete's  letter,  then,"  the  man  went  on, 
dismounting  from  his  horse.  "  I  suppose  it's  all  right 
to  talk  here.  No  one  around,  eh  ?  " 

"  As  well  here  as  anywhere.    Only  cut  it  short." 

"  Oh,  there  ain't  any  hurry,"  returned  the  man, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Wait  till  I  tie  my  horse,  then  we  can 
sit  down  and  chew  it  over  comfortable." 

"  Now,"  he  went  on,  that  task  performed,  "  what  I 
came  to  see  you  about  was  this  fellow  Munford." 

"Well,"   demanded  Burton,   "what  about  him?" 

"  It  looks  to  us  down  to  Big  Cloud,  from  the  way 
the  fellows  on  the  construction  trains  are  talkin',  you 
ain't  got  any  cause  to  love  him,  eh?  So  Pete  figured 
you  and  him  could  deal.  You  want  to  get  rid  of  him, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  seen  his  face !  "  exclaimed 
Burton,  with  great  bitterness. 

"Sure!  That's  the  idea.  You  don't  want  him; 
we  do  want  him — bad!  There's  nothin'  against  the 


338      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD. 

rest  of  the  men;  we'll  forget  all  about  that.  It's  just 
Munford  we're  after." 

"Why  don't  you  get  him,  then?"  said  Burton 
curtly. 

"  We're  goinj  to,"  the  man  replied,  with  a  nasty 
laugh.  "  We're  goin'  to,  all  right.  It's  a  fair  deal. 
You're  on,  eh?  Pete  said  you'd  jump  at  the  chance 
to  sit  in.  We  want  you  to  fire  him." 

"That  all  I'm  to  do?"  asked  Burton,  quietly. 

"  Sure,  that's  all  there  is  to  it — except  this." 

Munford's  hand  closed  on  his  companion's  arm  in 
a  tight,  spasmodic  grip  as  Pete's  emissary  produced  a 
wad  of  bills  and  began  to  peel  off  the  outer  ones. 

:<  Three  hundred  plunks,"  said  the  man,  extending 
the  money  he  had  abstracted  from  the  roll  to  Burton. 
"  Pretty  good  for  just  firm'  a  man  we've  been  lookin' 
for  you  to  fire  for  the  last  week,  anyway.  Besides, 
there's  been  some  talk  down  at  headquarters  about  you 
not  bein'  able  to  handle  your  men,  and  about  them 
gettin  someone  that  can.  Pete  says  not  to  bother 
about  that,  he'll  fix  it  for  you.  Here,  take  the  money." 

"  Suppose  I  fired  him,"  said  Burton,  slowly, 
"where'd  he  go?" 

:(  What  do  you  care  where  he  goes,  so  long  as  you 
get  rid  of  him?  " 

"  He  couldn't  go  West,"  went  on  Burton,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  other's  remark ;  "  so  he'd  have  to 
go  East — that's  Big  Cloud — and  murder!  "  He 
turned  fiercely,  savagely  on  the  man.  "  You  dirty, 
low-lived  hound !  "  he  flashed.  "  You  offer  me  three 
hundred  dollars  to  murder  a  man,  do  you?1  You 


MUNFORD  339 

wonder  why  I've  stood  for  what  I  did,  do  you,  you 
scrimp !  Fire  him,  eh,  to  get  a  cowardly  knife  or  shot 
in  his  back!  You  think  I  didn't  know  what  would 
happen  if  I  let  him  out,  eh?  Get  out  of  here,  you  cur! 
And  get  out  now — while  you  can!"  Burton's  voice 
rasped,  hoarse  with  passion.  He  turned  abruptly 
away  and  strode  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  camp. 

"  Hold  on,  wait  a  minute,  Burton,"  cried  the  other, 
following  him.  "  Don't  get  batty." 

Unconsciously  Munford  had  tightened  his  grip  on 
McGuire's  arm  until  the  latter  whimpered  with  the 
pain,  and  now  Munford  lifted  him  bodily  to  his  feet 
making  cautiously  for  the  spot  where  the  horse  was 
standing.  The  two  figures  were  still  discernible,  and 
Burton's  angry  voice  continued  to  reach  the  listeners, 
though  the  words  were  now  indistinguishable. 

Mun ford's  face  in  the  moonlight  was  colorless, 
the  muscles  around  his  mouth  twitched  convulsively. 
"D'ye  hear  what  they  said?  D'ye  hear  what  they 
said?  My  God!  d'ye  hear  it  all? "  he  was  mumbling 
incoherently  in  McGuire's  ear,  his  eyes  strained  up 
the  road. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it.  Let  go  of  my  arm,  you're 
breakin'  it!" 

"  He's  comin'  back,"  said  Munford,  hoarsely. 

Burton  had  disappeared  around  a  turn  in  the  road 
and  the  man,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  began  to 
retrace  his  steps  to  his  horse,  muttering  fiercely  to 
himself  as  he  came  along.  As  he  reached  for  the 
bridle,  Munford  leaped  out  and  grasped  him  by  the 
throat,  choking  back  the  man's  cry  of  terror. 


340     ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

'  You  make  a  noise,"  snarled  Munford,  "  and  I'll 
finish  you!  Oh,  it's  you,  eh?  Look  here,  Mac,  it's 
the  cuss  that  ran  the  roulette  wheel  that  night  at 
Pete's.  So  my  price  is  three  hundred,  eh  ?  Well,  hand 
it  out.  Quick!" 

Slowly  the  fellow  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  for 
the  second  time  that  night  pulled  out  his  roll. 

Mun  ford's  anger  seemed  to  have  vanished.  He 
laughed  softly  as  he  took  the  money. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  "  whined  the 
gambler. 

Munford  made  no  answer.  In  the  imperfect  light, 
he  was  laboriously  counting  the  bills.  McGuire 
watched  the  operation,  at  the  same  time  keeping  an 
eye  on  their  prisoner. 

"  Two  sixty — eighty — three  hundred,"  said  Mun- 
ford at  last,  cramming  that  amount  into  his  pocket 
and  handing  back  by  far  the  larger  part  of  the  roll  to 
the  man.  "  Wrhat  am  I  goin'  to  do  with  you  ? 
Nothin' !  You  get  on  that  horse  and  ride  back  to 
Pete.  I  want  him  to  know  this.  Tell  him  all  about 
it.  Tell  him  Munford  told  you  to  tell  him.  That's 
worth  more  than  breakin'  your  neck — and  that's  all 
that  saves  you  from  gettin'  it  broke,  savvy?  You  tell 
him  I've  got  the  three  hundred,  and  I'll  give  him  his 
chance  at  me  for  it  one  of  these  days.  And  when 
I  do — My  God,  you  ride  before  I  begin  with 
you!" 

The  fellow  glanced  fearfully  from  Munford  to 
McGuire  and  back  again  to  Munford  to  assure  him- 
self that  he  was  free  to  go.  Then  he  clambered  fran- 


MUNFORD  341 

tically  into  the  saddle  and  lashing  his  beast  in  a  frenzy 
of  terror  disappeared  down  the  trail. 

Munford,  with  swift  revulsion  of  mood,  threw  him- 
self down  on  the  grass,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Not  a  word  from  McGuire;  he  walked  awkwardly  up 
and  down,  whistling  under  his  breath.  After  a  minute 
Munford  looked  up. 

"  I  got  to  square  this  with  Burton,"  he  said 
brokenly. 

McGuire  nodded. 

"  He's  a  better  man  than  you  and  me  and  the  whole 
gang  put  together  " — Munford's  tones  were  fiercely 
assertive. 

"  He  is  that,"  assented  McGuire,  with  conviction. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  between  them ;  then 
McGuire  spoke :  "  Why  didn't  you  take  it  all  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Take  it  all !  "  flared  Munford.  "  I'm  no  thief,  am 
I?  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  That's 
my  price,  ain't  it  ?  Three  hundred.  That's  what  Pete 
offered  for  a  chance  to  get  his  paws  on  me.  Well,  /'// 
give  him  his  chance,  you  heard  me  promise,  didn't 
you?  That's  right,  eh?  That's  Pete's  proposition, 
and  the  money's  mine,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  McGuire. 

"  It  is,  and  it  ain't,"  said  Munford.  "  Burton  could 
have  had  it  if  he'd  sold  me  out,  couldn't  he?  Well, 
then,  I'm  goin'  to  see  he  gets  it  anyway." 

"  He  wouldn't  take  it,  not  by  any  means,  he 
wouldn't,"  objected  McGuire. 

"  Not  outright,  he  wouldn't,"  agreed  Munford.    "  I 


342      ON    THE    IRON    AT   BIG   CLOUD 

know  that  well  enough.  We  got  to  fix  it  so  he  won't 
know  where  it  come  from,  and  so  it  will  square  me 
with  him,  and  you  fellows,  too." 

"  How  you  goin'  to  do  that  ?  "  demanded  McGuire. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Munford.  "We'll  talk  it  over 
with  the  boys.  Come  on  back  to  camp." 

The  next  day  and  the  day  after,  the  gang  worked 
like  Trojans,  and  the  lack  of  any  sneer  or  incivility 
on  their  part,  coupled  with  a  subdued,  expectant  ex- 
citement that  the  men  tried  fruitlessly  to  hide,  made 
Burton  more  anxious  and  ill  at  ease  than  during  the 
days  that  had  gone  before.  It  looked  like  the  lull  be- 
fore the  storm;  and  he  wondered  bitterly  what  cul- 
minating piece  of  deviltry  they  were  hatching. 

To  the  taunts  of  the  train  crews  the  gang  grinned 
and  said  nothing. 

On  the  second  day  a  package,  addressed  to  Mun- 
ford, came  up  from  the  East,  and  at  noon  hour  the 
men  handed  it  around  from  one  to  another  in  awe- 
struck wonder  at  the  magnificence  of  the  solid  gold 
repeater  that  chimed  the  quarters,  halves  and  hours, 
and  split  the  seconds  into  fractions.  It  was  indeed  a 
beauty.  Maybe  the  chain  was  a  little  massive,  but  the 
men  opined  that  it  was  therefore  strong.  They  pried 
open  the  case  to  read  the  inscription  over  whose  word- 
ing they  had  wrestled  most  of  a  night. 

"  Nifty,  ain't  it?  "  cried  McGuire,  admiringly;  and 
he  read  it  aloud :  "  '  This  is  to  certify  that  Alan  Burton 
is  as  square  as  they  make  them,  and  Munford  and  the 
gang  are  sorry.  So  help  us ! '  They  delivered  it 
solemnly  to  Munford,  who  was  to  make  the  presenta- 


MUNFORD  343 

tion,  and  started  in  a  body  for  Burton's  shanty. 
Burton  met  them  at  the  door,  his  face  hard  and  set. 

"  So  it's  a  showdown  at  last,  eh,  boys?  "  he  laughed 
grimly.  "Well,  what  is  it?" 

The  men  shoved  Munford  bodily  forward  and  he 
stood  balancing  himself  sheepishly,  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other,  as  he  faced  Burton.  He  cleared 
his  throat  painfully  once  or  twice,  then  he  found  his 
voice.  From  a  point  of  oratory  or  rhetoric  it  was 
perhaps  the  lamest  presentation  speech  on  record,  for 
Munford  suddenly  thrust  the  watch  and  chain  into  the 
astounded  Burton's  hands. 

"Here,  take  it,"  he  sputtered.  "It's  all  written 
out  on  the  inside."  And  breaking  through  the  men, 
he  turned  and  fled  incontinently. 


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